


Bound to you

by Linnet



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnet/pseuds/Linnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Duchesscloverly's fantastic video 'Bound to you', recommend watching!</p><p>'Mycroft and Sherlock were cursed to live forever. If they fall in love the curse will be broken. If their feelings are not returned they will die. Unable to cope with the idea of living forever alone they try to dissuade the other from forming attachments to John Watson and Greg Lestrade. Unfortunately they can't help themselves and when the curse starts to weaken them they have no choice but to admit their secret.' - Duchesscloverly</p><p>This fic spends a lot of time exploring the Holmes' brother's history before we get to the shipping, so I guess it's a slow build. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 29th 1848

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) who is my ever-patient beta for this, and has been absolutely wonderful right from the start!

_**The screaming was everything. It was all that existed now. Darkness, so black that he could not see even the shadowed outline of his brother, enveloped them. Clutching desperately at the place where their hands had been joined only moments before, he realised that he had lost hold of his brother. The last thing that held them together had broken; he had slipped away. He tried to call out to him, but the desperate shout was lost in the terrible, ever-present wailing that surrounded them, swirling them through an abyss of pain. A voice came through the noise, so loud suddenly that it felt like it was bursting his eardrums, causing him to double over in agony, unable to scream or cry out at his torture.** _

_**“This will become heaven to you, this which you now call suffering. It will become your release, your escape, preferable to the eternal life that you must live. I call upon the demons of hell to lay this curse upon you two.”** _

_**It had been the last line of a chant, the screams melding into one to create the syllables that were spat from the mouth of Satan himself. He imagined he could hear his brother screaming with them, panicked, bewildered, and suffering alone. He tried to push himself into a standing position, to call out again, but the pressure of the voices pushed him down. He fell and landed awkwardly, unable to take in the air he needed so desperately to breathe. The ground shifted beneath him, and he could feel the movement of the screamers.** _

_**He wanted to pull away, separate himself from their rotting corpses, the shells that contained their damned souls, but he had not the strength, not the ability to escape, and was drowning in the need for air, the need to live. He tried one last time to call out, but he could not form even the smallest of sounds. It felt as if his very soul was being ripped out, and he was being cast aside, left to die. Too weak to struggle, he closed his eyes against the dark and let himself go, wishing he could die now, before the pain killed him.** _

_**Suddenly the screams faded, the writhing carpet of bodies moved away, dumping his useless body. All that was left was the silence, and the dark, and the pain.** _

Mycroft woke in a cold sweat, shivering, unable to discern if his involuntary muscle spasms were caused by fear or cold. He sat up, panting, staring around his room. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he had taken to sleeping with the light on. It was not dignified, but no-one would know and he much preferred it to the alternative; waking up from the nightmare which haunted him in the dark. The nightmares ended in pitch black, and upon waking he used to believe that the situations in his dreams were continuing. In essence, they were, but the events that followed had already passed and become mere memories. Only the still-potent memory of the curse itself was part of his nightly torture.

He lay back on his pillows, closing his eyes. He was home, and safe, where nothing could get to him or Sherlock. Ignoring that this was because it had already claimed them, he took comfort in the idea that there was no possible way their situation could become any worse. Taking deep, fortifying breaths, he calmed himself, slowing his elated pulse and letting the adrenalin seep out of his veins.

_Calm._ He told himself. _It is just a dream. None of it is happening any more. It’s over now._ If only he could believe that. The nightmares were so vivid, so realistic, because he still remembered the events as if they were yesterday.

His eyes snapped open again at the sound of a short, sharp, terrified scream. He was up and running before he even realised what he was doing. Wrenching open one’s bedroom door and skidding along the corridors in bare feet and one’s favourite silk pyjamas is hardly gentlemanly behaviour, but for once, Mycroft didn’t care. By the time he arrived in his little brother’s room, Sherlock had screamed himself awake. The light was on already, and Sherlock hadn’t moved far. He slept with the light on too then, perhaps for the same reason. Mycroft, praying silently that the screaming hadn’t woken mummy, sat on the edge of his brother’s bed. Sherlock was curled in a foetal position, bare skin uncovered and shivering, having kicked his duvet to the floor. He would not wear pyjamas, for some childish reason, and so his pale skin was exposed and the goose-bumps stood high on his normally smooth complexion. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and held him close, offering his warmth and comfort. Sherlock clung to him tightly, still shivering, tears soaking Mycroft’s chest.

It took a long time for him to regain control. When he finally sat back, his eyes were red and swollen, and he looked furious with himself.

“Weak!” He muttered, frustrated, brushing the last of his tears away with the back of his hand. Mycroft knew better than to comment, and so stood up and went to the en-suite to fetch a flannel. He let it run under the cool water and then wrung it out, shaking the droplets into the sink. He returned to his little brother and pressed the cool material to his forehead. Sherlock put his hand up and took it, holding it in place. “I’ve ruined your pyjamas.” He whispered, keeping his voice low.

Mycroft shook his head, and replied at a similar volume that nobody outside the room would be able to hear, and therefore be disturbed by. “Hardly. It will wash out.”

“You won’t tell mummy?” Despite trying to cover it, Sherlock’s voice trembled with fear. Mycroft undid the buttons and pulled his top off, folding it carefully to hide the wet patch. It was cold in just his silk bottoms, but he didn’t mind.

“There. If I put it in the wash early in the morning, only the servants will see, and they know better than to talk.” Sherlock nodded, and curled tight against his brother’s chest. Mycroft smiled, even though he was suddenly freezing where the flannel touched him. He looped his arm around his brother’s shoulders.

“I didn’t wake you up.” Sherlock whispered. There was no regret in his voice, no tone of questioning. It was a statement.

“I was awake.” Mycroft admitted. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his, and he found himself being studied carefully, analysed by a pair of curious little grey eyes.

“You had that nightmare again.”

“Yes.” He didn’t know why he bothered to confirm it, but he needed to say something. Sherlock understood anyway.

“The therapy isn’t working.” His sad, childishly wide eyes were worried. Mycroft smiled.

“No. But it doesn’t matter.” They both knew he was lying, but neither of them commented on it.

Sherlock worked his hand into his brother’s, and squeezed his fingers tightly.  “I won’t tell mummy.”

“Thank you.” They were quiet for a while, until Mycroft spoke again, breaking the companiable silence that had built up between them. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes please.” Mycroft smiled and stood up, pulling the duvet back onto the bed and tucking it around his little brother before he could get cold again.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” He whispered, already opening the door. Sherlock nodded, and wriggled under his covers, trying to replace the warmth of his brother’s comforting embrace.

Mycroft stepped quietly through the corridors, not wanting anyone to wake, especially mummy. She disliked that her sons both suffered distressing nightmares, thinking them to be weak and feeble. As her only heirs, she was disappointed that they had known grown into strong, controlling men who could run a household.

Mycroft made it to the kitchen and found a glass to fill with water. He carried the full tumbler carefully back up the steps, not wanting to spill a single drop. Eyes focused on the water, he did not see the shadow at the top of the stairs until it was too late. Only when he was nearly on the landing did he stop, one foot on the last step. He froze.

“Hello Mycroft.” The clearly feminine voice was deceptively soft and calm, giving no clue of the speaker’s true disposition.

“Hello mummy.” He replied, not wanting to speak. He hated the way they were expected to address their mother, the way they were expected to talk to her, as if there was affection in their relationship.

“What are you doing, my son?”

“I am fetching a glass of water mummy. My throat was dry and I could not sleep.”

“Now now Mycroft, it is not like you to be forgetful.” He swallowed thickly, trying to keep calm, unable to think of a response. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he did not dare to look up at her face, which would surely be alight with malice. She made an infuriatingly patronising tutting sound with her tongue, the noise carrying even under her breath, when he did not reply. “What have I told you about telling naughty lies, Mycroft dear? Tell me the truth. Who did you fetch the water for?”

She knew the answer already, he knew, and was only asking so that she could humiliate him further. “Sherlock.” He whispered.

“Mycroft darling, do speak up, you _know_ how I hate it when you mutter so.” She would keep calling him by his name, reasserting her authority and her power over him. Every time she did it he grew angrier, hating it more and more.

He took a deep breath and finally raised his eyes, looking at her, challengingly. “I was fetching a glass of water for Sherlock.” Realising that he was beginning to shake, he hoped that it was a reaction to the cold, not his fear. His mother noticed.

“Mycroft sweetheart, where is your lovely pyjama top that your papa bought for you? Go and get it at once, boy!”

“I was hot, mother. I took it off.”

“Mycroft! Do not disobey me, do not call me mother, and do not lie! You are shivering, Mycroft, go and put your shirt on.”

“I will disobey you because I do not respect you. I will not call you mummy because that is an affectionate term and I do not regard you with sentimentality. And I lie because you would not attempt to understand and be supportive like a mother should if I gave you the true explanation.”

“Mycroft! Do you not speak to me so! Wicked, wicked child, go to your room at once!” She cried, horrified by his disobedience.

“No. I will not go. Sherlock needs me.” Something strange had come over her son which she had seen in him before. His whole stance had changed. He stood with his legs slightly apart, his arms crossed against his chest, his chin held up high with pride and self-respect.

“He does not need you, Mycroft! He is an adult, he can look after himself.” She was scornful, letting herself be led into a petty squabble with her own son.

“He is not an adult! He is a child and he needs care like any child does. If you will not provide that care then I will do it for you, because I will _not_ let my brother down!”

“Mycroft, we have talked about this before. Sherlock is nearly twenty years old, he no longer needs a nanny to care for him!”

“You know that time doesn’t mean the same to us! He may be nineteen in years, but in body and mind he is ten years younger, still the age he was when we were cursed!”

“Mycroft, do not speak it, son, do not mention it...” She was desperate now, moaning in horror, terrified that their secret would be revealed, even though there were only the three of them in this part of the house.

“DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” They both stopped, astounded by his outburst. Mycroft took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was with a quiet and dangerous malice he did not know he was capable of. “I will never be your son. I will never call you my mother again. No mother is ashamed of her children. And you are, aren’t you? You didn’t fire the nanny because Sherlock is too old. You fired her because she began to understand that neither of us was growing up, and she began to suspect that we were different. And you can’t cope with that, can you? You can’t cope with the idea that we are different, because in your eyes, different is _wrong_. It doesn’t matter that we can’t help what we are. It doesn’t matter that we are your own sons. You treat us like slaves, like nothing more than poor children off the street.”

Sherlock had crept out of bed to listen at his door, drawn to eavesdrop by the sound of raised voices in the hallway. He didn’t dare to peek around the door, but hid behind it, pressing his ear up against the wood. He strained desperately to hear what his mother’s reply was, but the hallway had fallen silent. It remained so for several seconds. Sherlock could feel his heart beating, terrified on behalf his brother. Neither of them had ever stood up to their mother like that before, never dared to question her authority, as it had always been enforced with physical damage.

But then there was a loud slapping noise, the kind created by skin against skin. This was shortly followed by a stifled cry of pain and the smash and tinkle of shattering glass. Finally plucking up his courage, Sherlock stuck his head around the door.

Mycroft was leaning up against the landing wall, surrounded by a carpet of glass shards, some glittering with his blood, having sliced his skin as he fell. He was staring at the wall opposite, unseeing, shocked by his mother’s reaction. Her bedroom doorway across the hallway was slammed shut at Sherlock watched. She had left her eldest son to suffer.

Sherlock dashed across the landing and crouched by his brother’s side, careful to avoid the sharp glass that littered the wooden floor. Mycroft’s legs and hands were covered in hundreds of little scratches and scrapes, and his cold, bare feet had shards of glass stuck in them. Sherlock almost gasped in surprise as the skin began to close over the smallest cuts, already stemming the flow of blood. He knew it happened; Mycroft had told him about it, but he’d never seen it before. Then he realised the implications. If Mycroft’s body was healing itself this quickly, the shards of glass in his feet would become trapped there. Quickly, he began to pull them out, smallest first, allowing the cuts to seal over afterwards.

Thankfully, very little glass had actually caught in the skin, and Mycroft was soon free, most of his cuts already healed over. Sherlock watched in fascination as the skin grew to cover the tiny wounds and they faded into skin without a trace. Mycroft blinked and groaned, pulling himself out of his initial shock, and Sherlock was startled into looking at his face for the first time. The bright red, raw area of skin where he had been stuck was already bruising. As he looked on it bemusement, the bruise purpled, and grew, and then within minutes had faded into nothingness.

Mycroft, who had been wincing in pain as the bruise receded, touched his cheek delicately and nodded in a motion almost too small to be noticed, though he did not look pleased. Then he looked down at his newly healed skin and sighed.

“It’s the curse again, Sherlock.” He stated. “Immortality comes at a price, apparently. Not only has it delayed and possibly even completely halted the ageing process, it causes unnaturally quick healing processes as well, which is not an occurrence without pain, may I hasten to add.” He took a deep breath, and looked up at his little brother, eyes shining with barely withheld tears. “Oh, good gracious.” He said, simply. For Mycroft, that was the equivalent of saying an incredibly rude word.


	2. June 4th 1876

Breakfast was, like every other meal the family shared, a strictly silent affair. It was common courtesy, according to their mother. The formidable woman herself was seated at the head of the table, the place that had once been reserved for father. He had not occupied the seat for almost forty years, his position overtaken by their mother after his death. It was a tactical vantage position, from where she could govern her son’s manners without dispute. The boys sat mutely to either side of her, facing each other, but frustratingly unable to communicate under the watchful eye of their guardian.

In the suffocating quiet, the tinny tap-tapping of ornate cutlery on priceless china plates rang through the empty space like a tolling bell. The three figures were dwarfed by the sheer scale of the room. The carved oak table had been commissioned almost two generations earlier with the intention of being able to serve fifty people comfortably, and it fitted inside the dining room with plenty of space to spare in which guests had been expected to socialise after dinner. It had not been unknown for the guests to take to the floor and the dining room had become a luxuriously spacious ballroom on more than one occasion.

Once upon a time, the Holmes’ dinner parties had been famously recognised as extravagant, flamboyant affairs that royalty had been known to attend. Turning down an invitation to such an event was social suicide. Now the many priceless candelabras and place markers had been packed away into cupboards, some of the finer silverware denoted to glass-fronted cabinets, gathering dust. Even Mycroft didn’t know where half of the champagne flutes and whiskey tumblers had vanished to, and he knew the house better than anyone.

The huge glass chandeliers had been covered since two Christmases ago, when the wires had begun to come loose and a priceless crystal had fallen to the ground and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Instead of being graceful, elegant sculptures, the heavy grey dust sheets had transformed them into thick dark shadows that clung to the ceiling like wide sinister spiders.

Sherlock picked listlessly at his food, unwilling to eat. When his mother glared at him, he sighed dramatically and took a miniscule bite, not nearly enough to provide any kind of sustenance. Mycroft watched the exchange warily out of the corner of his eye, something that he was not unused to doing. Sherlock detested being watched, but got himself into trouble so often that Mycroft had trained his peripheral vision into a fine art. He knew that if his little brother was forced to endure any longer there was going to be a tantrum. He lay aside his spoon carefully and coughed politely to attract his mother’s attention. She looked up at him, a little surprised by his forwardness.

“I was hoping that I could take Sherlock out on Francis Squire today. He missed his ride last week due to the unexpected change in weather.” His mother was clearly affronted, raising her eyebrows, but not daring to retaliate with a reprimand. They could go several days without exchanging a word, and almost two sentences spoken together without a hint of a fore-coming confrontation was a record.

“Certainly, you may... take him out, although... Sherlock is not to ride the Stallion. He will... take the mare as he... usually does.”

“Mother, the mare has thrown a shoe and cannot be ridden.”

“Then who are you... to ride, Mycroft?”

“There is a new young mare in the stables, barely more than a filly, who I understand needs breaking in. I will see to her while Sherlock rides.” Was the explanation he offered, knowing she would not be able to refuse. He could sense his mother’s disapproval already, but he also knew she would not fight him. What Mycroft knew about horses could fill a library’s worth of books, and his mother could barely write a page. She had ridden when she was young, but youth had long been denied her.

For the first time in many years, Mycroft looked properly at his mother. He knew that she was elderly; she had turned sixty at the turn of the decade, a proper age for someone in this day and age, but he had not really thought properly about her surely limited future before. Her skin was loose and wrinkled and her cheeks were criss-crossed with lines. Dark circles ringed her eyes, grey strands interwove her thinning hair, and when she spoke her sentences were punctuated by pauses as she struggled to think of what to say.

“You two had better... change into your... riding clothes then.” She finished with a long breath, as if speaking even the shortest of sentences was a struggle. It was their dismissal, their cue to leave. Both brothers rose simultaneously and dipped their heads courteously to her before exiting.

As soon as they were in the corridor, Sherlock turned his angry blue-grey eyes to his elder brother.

“What did you say that for? I’ve been riding Squire for months!”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, Sherlock, I know that, but we never told her, and I don’t want her finding out if you have an accident.”

“I won’t! And I don’t want to ride today anyway, I have violin practice.” He jutted his chin upwards with a definite air of defiance that would have been pretty effective if it hadn’t made him look so _adorable_. Mycroft had to stifle a laugh before retaliating.

“Tough luck, little brother. Squire needs exercising and I need to break Gaile, and I can’t do both.”

Sherlock glared at him. “You _laughed_ at me!”

“Yes, because you did something worth laughing at. Now go and get your breeches, I’ll meet you in the stable block in ten minutes.”

With one last huff and mutter of protest “I don’t _like_ wearing my breeches, they _chafe_.” He was gone, taking the stairs two at a time. Mycroft had half a mind to call after him to watch his step, and stop fooling around, but the words didn’t quite manage to form.

~0~

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock was lying on his back in the shade of the yew trees that lined the alleyway that ran next to the stable block and hid it from the house. He played lazily with a piece of grass, almost forgetting to keep an eye on the mare he was supposed to be watching. The old white cob was recovering from a bad limp, and was only allowed in the field when help was close at hand if she needed it. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Sherlock was secretly pleased that Mycroft trusted him enough to let him watch the sick horse.

Mycroft was in the next ring, riding Gaile at a gentle walking pace. The young filly’s transformation had been extraordinary. When they had first shut her into the circular pen, she had been wild, galloping round in frenzied circles. It had taken only half an hour of quiet work for Mycroft to be able to stand safely in with her, and the training had progressed even faster after that. He had begun gently, letting Gaile get used to his presence. Then he had taken his position in the centre of the ring. Although he had seemed relaxed, Sherlock had known enough to see that Mycroft was poised to flee at any second if her temper turned.

But she hadn’t worked herself up, and instead it had taken his brother only a few scant minutes to have her following at his shoulder like she was on a lead rein, though he hadn’t laid a hand on her. And now he was riding her as if she was a little old pony, not a young, dangerous and still slightly wild young horse.

Sherlock closed his eyes, lulled into a doze by the gentle humming of bees in the distance and the deliciously warm summer breeze. He lay for goodness knows how long, lost in his own head, carefully ordering his thoughts and tuning his reactions. It was a peaceful existence, and he was completely relaxed for the first time in a long while.

Hours or minutes may have passed before he was woken from his reverie by a gentle, warm breath on his face. It smelt of fresh grass and hay, and he wrinkled his nose at the mild unpleasantness of the sensation. Opening one eye slowly, he was greeted by a close-up view of a light pink muzzle at the end of a long face. Peaceful brown eyes stared at him, cool and refreshingly blank. The horse was not judging him. It could not. It was nice that way.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft was calling, his voice distant. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled himself upright, gently pushing away the mare’s soft nose. Mycroft was approaching, brow wet with perspiration, cheeks red with effort. His crop was tucked underneath his arm and his kerchief around his neck hung loose where he had pulled at it. Behind him, Gaile was kicking at her stable door, looking put out.

“Sherlock! Come and ride Squire before lunchtime! You know how mother hates us to be late.”

“I’m coming! Where am I taking him?”

“Up on the fell, if you’re careful. Go around the pine woods way, it’ll take you out across the top where you can gallop him. It’ll be good for him, he needs to pull the muscles. Careful not to trot him until you’ve gone past the standing stone though, he needs a good long warm up first.” Sherlock nodded, carefully planning the route in his head. He knew better than to dispute Mycroft’s plan, even though a long warm-up was boring to ride.

“Can I take him back past the waterfall?” Mycroft considered it.

“Hm... alright. Just remember not to let him pull at the start, take control, or you’ll lose him over the top and you need to be able to stop him before you reach the gorge.”

“Got it. Have you tacked him up?” Mycroft nodded and pushed his wet fringe out of face with one hand.

“Get on with it, Sherlock. We’ll have to rub him down when you get back and you’ll need a shower before we go in.”

“Going, going! I’ll be back soon!” He dashed off, arms flailing and long black curls flopping against his neck, eyes bright from the excitement of the prospect of a ride. Mycroft grinned after him, and wondered if he’d have to remind Sherlock not to let Squire drink through his bridle. He decided that his little brother had at least some common sense.

~0~

Mycroft had rubbed off the lame mare and stabled her before he spotted the figure atop the huge black charger on the hillside. The pair were framed against the sky, silhouetted by the morning sun on the other side of the hill. Squire was going flat out, neck stretched forward, legs flying outstretched and then collecting tight with deceptive ease of stride. As he watched, the familiar rider leaned forward, urging him on, and his already long stride lengthened impossibly. Even from this distance, Mycroft could hear his brother laughing in excitement, the sound carrying across the valley from the hill through the still summer air.

He was sweeping the yard when they returned, both horse and rider tired and fulfilled. Even now, Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with excitement, the remains of the adrenalin still keeping him lively. He grabbed some straw as Mycroft pulled off Squire’s saddle and began to rub at the sweaty patches with vigour. Mycroft inspected the stallion with a critical eye, and nodded with satisfaction. It had been a good run, then, which Sherlock was grateful for. Riding Squire was exhilarating, and it would be unimaginably tedious if Mycroft stopped him from doing it.

“Have fun?” His brother asked, smiling. Sherlock nodded, enthusiastically.

“Yeah! Squire...” He stopped, surprised. His voice had suddenly jumped an octave. He tried again, more warily. “Squire... Argh!” This time his voice fluctuated strangely, and then faltered completely. Mycroft stared at him, mouth hanging open in amazement.

“Sherlock? Are you ok?”

“I’m fine!” He tried, but it came out as more of a splutter, much lower than his usual childish high-pitched soprano. He stopped trying and adopted a peeved, slightly confused look. To his great affront, Mycroft ginned and a slow laugh began to grow in his throat. “Mycroft!” He protested, and it came out as a deep baritone, a vibrating rumble. He clapped his hands over his mouth in horror, and Mycroft burst into uncontrollable giggles. Sherlock tried glaring, because it _wasn’t funny_ , but Mycroft was insatiable. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and no amount of feet-stamping and silent stropping from Sherlock could stop him.

“Stop it! Stop laughing at me!” Sherlock cried in the end, his voice finally returning to his normal tone. His brother wiped at his eyes, and after what looked like a struggle managed to look more serious, though he was still smiling.

“Sherlock, how old are you? In years?” He asked.

“ 46, I think. But we haven’t bothered keeping count, Mycroft, you said time wasn’t the same for us!”

Mycroft looked thoughtful. “No, it doesn’t. You still look like you’re only about ten... oh!” And his eyes lit up, as if realising something. He turned away, lost in thought “Sherlock was nine years old when the curse was put on us... which must have been... almost 36 years ago.” He muttered to himself, staring unseeing at the crest of the hill where Sherlock had been riding not half an hour before. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he was reading a script on the inside of his head that only he could see. “I know we are still growing, but at a much slower rate. If that rate was say, ten years in normal time was one year for us, then that would make Sherlock’s actual self around the development stage of an average thirteen or fourteen year old... which is the age where...”

“Where _what_ Mycroft? Stop talking in the third person, I’m right here!”

Mycroft turned to him, still looking a bit lost. “What? Oh! Sorry Sherlock, I was thinking.”

“Yes I _know_ , I’m not stupid. But what happens when I’m thirteen or fourteen?”

Mycroft grinned, and if it looked a little malicious, it was only because he’d already gone through everything, and Sherlock had it all yet to come. “Growing up, Sherlock. That’s what’s happened to your voice. It’s breaking.”

Sherlock’s forehead creased as he frowned. Now he was deliberately scrutinizing him, Mycroft could see that the young boy’s cheekbones were higher than they had been, the set and colour of his eyes had changed ever so slightly, and his whole demeanour had been adjusted, even if it was only subtly. The modification had been so gradual (ten times slower than was normal in fact), that he hadn’t noticed it happening at all until the transition period was in full bloom.

“Like breaking in a horse when it needs training?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh at his brother’s unintentional irony. He was as difficult and out-of-control as an unbroken horse, that much was for sure.  Sherlock was certainly going to be an interesting teenager.

“In a way. It’s the bit which happens to make you ready for the big wide world, I suppose.” He settled for saying.

“Oh.” Mycroft noticed that there was a hint of something different in his voice already. It was ever so slightly lower, with the slight ring of something deep and soft. It sounded like Sherlock was going to take after their father, who had had a wonderful full baritone voice that was really remarkable.

Staring into his brother’s blue-grey eyes, Mycroft wondered if he too, had developed by factors so small they were almost imperceptive. The prospect was exciting, and a little scary. He resolved to have a good look in the glass when he returned to his room. For now though, he smiled at his little brother, and then turned his attention back to Squire.

“Come on Sherlock, it’s nearly lunchtime. We’d better not be late.” Sherlock nodded, and moved back towards the stallion. Only Mycroft would have noticed the slight crease that still lingered in his brother’s features, indicating that he was still deep in thought. He didn’t mention it out of consideration. After all, he had refused to speak for weeks while his voice was breaking, and it had been over in a matter of days. If Sherlock’s growing time was extended, god only knew how long he was going to have to put up with it for.


	3. June 5th 1876

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this chapter took so long, but this has definitely been a difficult one! Also I've had Maths resits and stuff, so I haven't been able to dedicate time to editing properly. So, although this is edited - because there is no way anybody is ever going to have to go through the torture of reading my raw stuff - there may still be mistakes. If you spot any, please feel free to point them out so that I can correct them! Thank you!  
> More importantly though, I'd like to say thank you to everybody who is reading, kudosing (is that a word?) and appreciating this, because honestly, I'm a little bit...ok, completely... astounded by the reaction to this. I never thought it would get such a good response! It means a lot to me. Which is cliche, and sentimental, yeah, but true. So thank you all for being amazing :)  
> Most importantly of all, massive thanks to Duchesscloverly for letting me use her work as inspiration. Seriously, if you haven't seen her stuff, check it out, it's brilliant!

Mycroft had always wondered at the strange tone that a violin produced. It was sublime to appreciate, certainly, but there really was no way to describe it. He listened intently to the sound, struggling to put into words the essence of the music, and failing miserably. There was no doubt that Sherlock played beautifully, but his practice agitated Mycroft. In time, he would learn to control his frustration, to relax and enjoy the wonderful strange beauty that is the note of a violin. Now, it almost angered him, although he could not understand why. He could not put that into words either, and he hated it. Words were everything. They should be able to describe everything, too. But they couldn’t. Everything he tried was mediocre, not quite right, not quite perfect. He could say was that it was hauntingly, terrifyingly emotive, crisp, dark, delicate, but it was so much more. Fascinating, elegant, graceful, exquisite, breathtaking, majestic, moving. He tried all of those words, and worked himself round in a circle. Yes, all those words described it, but they failed to grasp the very nature of the music that he wished to describe. It could not be captured, could not be expressed. The only way to appreciate the music was to hear it, and only then could it truly be understood.

Standing on the landing with his hand on the bedroom door, listening to Sherlock play, he hovered for several minutes, not wishing to cause disruption. He recognised the melody as a Chopin, one originally intended to be played on Piano. He listened, enraptured, until all too soon it was over, and Sherlock spoke, breaking the spell of the music.

“Nocturne in C sharp minor.” He said without preamble, knowing he had an audience. He always knew, but Mycroft had yet to work out _how_ he knew. Instead of thinking too hard on it, he pushed open the door to find his little brother staring out of the window, violin still held tight under his chin, bow raised.

“Sit.” He commanded, still facing out into the evening, though the dark night sky made it impossible to see the once-elaborate gardens that the window overlooked. Mycroft sat. On the floor, incidentally, because it would not do to sit on the bed and there were no chairs available. Though one simply did not argue with Sherlock Holmes when he was practicing his violin, because practicing was not a word that could be applied to that degree of care and perfection that he attended to his playing. Every melody was a performance, and he would perform perfectly even when there was no audience. There was never any exception.

The bowing began again, quick and light, a dance taken in leaps and bound as the scales were explored and exposed. Sherlock did not simply play; he caught and moulded the music, turning it and teasing the notes from his instrument with skill and dexterity. Mycroft, although he did not regard the actual piece with pleasure, was nevertheless enraptured by the complexity of the motifs and the incredible intricate rhythms that somehow managed to catch and hold his attention. They changed constantly, from quick and light to sudden bright, sharp, almost tangy notes, and then equally unexpectedly would become slow and sedative before starting back into wailing turns. As the music changed, so did Sherlock, swaying gently when it was slow, and flicking, flashing with energy when the music took him and dictated the need for enthusiasm. Everything wove into a complex melody so enrapturing that when it stopped abruptly, he found himself almost stunned by it. Once again, the music had affected the air in the room, and to break the silence with anything as ordinary and common as speech would be a crime unto nature.

Sherlock sighed and flicked his bow away, letting the violin drop away from his neck and into his hands. He cradled it carefully as he turned to Mycroft. His expression was carefully arranged, his almost smile curling the corners of his mouth humourlessly.

“You wanted something?” His voice was harsh and guttural, and had an edge to it that suggested that he did not appreciate having his older brother listen to him play. Mycroft cleared his throat before replying, playing for time enough to push away the spell the music had cast over him. When he spoke, it was in his usual controlled tone, careful and precise. Sherlock suspected that he was the only one who ever saw that mask slip. He wouldn’t admit that he felt a little guilty about the fact that he really wanted to keep it that way.

Mycroft stood, not allowing Sherlock to be a level up for long. He did not like his younger brother’s domineering height, especially when Sherlock used it to throw the balance of control in their relationship. “You’re to come down to the drawing room as soon as you’ve finished your practice.” He said, his voice clipped and precise, but the tiredness still showing.

Sherlock sighed. So, mummy wanted to talk to them again. It was such a tedious business, all of it. She was probably only going to complain about their... lack of _something,_ anyway. There always seemed to be something important that he and Mycroft had forgotten to do, or ‘neglected to remember’, and she would always tell them she was so disappointed in them, as if either of them cared in the slightest about her opinions of them.

“What if I don’t want to?” He retorted, already turning back to his violin, turning the pages on his music stand, searching through the pages and pages of handwritten notations.

The activity helped calm him. Just by looking at the titles on the music, he could remember every performance he’d ever been to. He’d listened, and memorised, and as soon as he’d got home, he’d written it all down so that he could play every single piece he had ever heard. The only time he and Mycroft ever left their huge country estate was to go to London to attend those concerts. They did not go regularly, and were lucky if they got a trip once every five years. Even then, they never attended the same hall twice. In fact, they hadn’t been at all in the past decade and a half. Sherlock quietly suspected that they had been to all of the concert halls already, and they would never get another chance to go again. So he treasured his music sheets, and practiced often enough for the scores to be more moral support that instruction. He could play all of the pieces with his eyes shut.

“It wasn’t optional.” Mycroft sounded fatigued, frustrated, and Sherlock knew he hadn’t slept well last night, after he and mummy had a row about the state of Sherlock’s clothes and his irregular voice fluctuations. Mummy had somehow seemed to blame Mycroft for weakening his little brother, even though the occurrence was perfectly normal and there was no possible way that Mycroft could have done anything about it. Even so, Sherlock had refused to say a word all evening. He was reluctant to talk now, but Mycroft had done his laughing, and at least he didn’t believe that it was a sign of weakness.

“I didn’t think it was. I still don’t want to.” Not that there was anything laughable about his voice. When it settled, it was a truly unique deep, soft, tenor that vibrated pleasantly. It made him sound very grown-up, and if only he would act his age, he would be a charming young man, Mycroft thought.

He did not deign to comment on this, but sighed, wishing his little brother wouldn’t try his patience so, especially when he had precious little in his reserves. “Look, if it makes it any easier, I don’t want to talk to her either.” He said.

Sherlock mockingly sighed in return, over-exaggerating the noise. “She’ll take an age to say even the shortest of sentences, and keep forgetting what she was talking about and going off on tangents.” He huffed, passing an unnecessary amount of air through his nose. It was not a dignified, and Mycroft found himself despairing at Sherlock’s sheer stubbornness.

“Just put it away and come downstairs, Sherlock. I won’t ask again.” He growled, and Sherlock knew the battle was lost. Nowadays, Mycroft only called him by his first name when he was at the end of his tether. It had become a signal between them, meaning; ‘ _No more arguing. This is the point where you give in or you really wish you had listened to me.’_ Sherlock knew it was no empty threat, even unspoken.

“You didn’t deny it.” He returned, but he was already putting the violin in its case, back once again to the door, facing out towards the darkness outside the window. Dark it may have been, but anything would be better than to be trapped this prison of a house.

“I can’t deny the truth, but that doesn’t make it a nice thing to say.”

“I wasn’t intending to be nice.” He spat, his features contorted into barely-suppressed rage.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it. Stop being childish.” Mycroft countered.

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw down his bow and stamp his feet. “Do you always have an answer for everything?” He demanded, letting his annoyance through in voice, something he’d been trying to train himself not to do. It worked with mummy. Not with Mycroft though, apparently.

“Yes.” Mycroft seemed to gain some kind of inner strength from seeing Sherlock’s self-control falter. He drew himself up, allowing the hardness in his eyes to reassert itself, forcing away the tiredness that had wracked him only moments before. His voice was steady and clear, his dictation frustratingly perfect.

“It’s incredibly annoying.”

“Good. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Sherlock growled at the space where Mycroft had been, but reluctantly put his bow away and tucked his beloved violin back under his bed, where he knew Mycroft knew he put it. Still, deliberately keeping it there sent a clear message; _Private_.

Only when it was safely tucked away did he made his way along the landing and down the stairs, negotiating the maze of corridors and rooms that was the Holmes family house. He may have dawdled, but then decided that Mycroft would not appreciate the delay, and he would already be wasting enough time that could be spent doing something more productive.

And so he did eventually reach the Drawing room, and he expected to be met with a scene of regular, quiet, familiarity. Instead, it was not quiet, but silent. Complete, all-encompassing, deathly silence.

Mycroft was kneeling with his head in his hands, beside a sprawled body. The limbs were contorted into unnatural positions, one arm flung out towards the door, the other crumpled beneath the side and twisted backwards. Sherlock recognised the head of full bright auburn hair flecked with silver-white strands. He stopped, hanging onto the doorway for support, and let out a little strangled gasp of shock.

Mycroft looked up at the noise, and his eyes were a terrifyingly bright blue, wide and open. He looked more vulnerable than Sherlock had ever seen him. He took two hesitant steps forward, his eyes flicking from his brother to the body, the question in his expression, even though he knew the answer. He knew the answer before Mycroft gave the tiniest shake of his head. Even then, Sherlock was compelled by some inexplicable force to kneel beside his mother and take her wrist, feeling for a pulse that wasn’t there. He held her wrist for a long time, already feeling the skin cooling under his own warm fingers.

Suddenly, repulsed by the idea of touching a dead body, he dropped her wrist. The arm fell limply to the floor with a terribly final thump, but she did not stir. Sherlock shuddered and pulled back, scraping his hands together with unnecessary force, as if trying to scrub away the touch of death. When he looked up, he noticed that Mycroft was still staring at him, dumbly, completely blank.

They sat there for a long time, a son on either side of their mother, keeping a silent vigil for no reason in particular. Both would probably have said out of respect, but neither would be able to answer what they respected about her if asked.

It was Sherlock who spoke first, sounding a little lost, bewildered. 

“I’m not crying.” He said. Mycroft had forgotten quite how young Sherlock really was until that moment, and it brought the world back. He began to think again, no longer restricted by the tight panic that had gripped him upon finding his mother lying dead upon the drawing-room rug.

“I know.” Was all he could think to say in reply.

“Why aren’t I crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“People normally cry when someone dies. We’re not observing protocol.”

Mycroft tried to smile, to offer reassurance, but the smile got lost somewhere between his brain and his lips, and all that happened was that he tilted his head slightly. Then he realised that his mother’s eyes were still staring straight at him. No, _through_ him, he corrected. Unable to summon up the composure to do anything else, he leaned forward, and gently pressed a finger to the soft skin of each of her eyelids, pulling them down and closed. It was better that way. Now she just looked like she was sleeping. Then he managed to smile slightly. He looked up to see Sherlock giving him a worried look.

“I don’t think protocol really matters right now.” He said, slowly, remembering that they had been talking.

Sherlock was still giving him an odd look, so he tried again. “What is it?” He asked. It was obvious something was still wrong. Well, more wrong. Even wronger. Wronger? That wasn’t even a word. Mycroft Holmes had made a mistake. He blinked, confused.

“Where are we going to live now?” Sherlock said, his voice ringing through the light, clear, emptiness that filled Mycroft’s mind. He was never one for beating about the bush, Mycroft reflected. He was direct and to the point. He wondered if it was disrespectful to talk of things like that so soon, but dismissed the thought. It was important.

“Here. Like we always have done.”

“But it’s mummy’s house.” Was the reply, and Mycroft realised that Sherlock was dealing with it already, in his own way. He just needed to keep moving, to keep talking, to _understand_.

“You know, she won’t need it anymore.” He took great care saying it, unsure if his little brother would understand. Sherlock was sitting now, knees curled against his chest, head tucked down as far as it would go whilst still keeping his eyes on... her.

“Yes. I know.”

And he did understand, Mycroft realised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really would recommend listening to the pieces Sherlock plays - It makes everything so much more realistic, I think. And they are incredible pieces. Honestly, they are amazing!  
> The first one is Chopin's Nocturne in C sharp minor, arranged for violin, which can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdEvKp7Z8BA which Sherlock arranged himself because he's never been one for the easy way out and decided to learn to play a piano piece on violin so that he wouldn’t forget it.  
> And the second one is Paganini's Caprice no.24 for violin, which isn’t actually named, but can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=92k43Ja2hhg I chose this one because it's credited as being one of the most technically challenging violin solos ever composed, and I wanted to demonstrate the sheer level of skill that Sherlock has had time to develop locked away in that house of theirs.


	4. June 10th 1876

It was bright and cool in the little family chapel. Clear sunlight filtering through the stained glass window painted intricate patterns on the worn beige stone of the floor. It was, overall, a very pleasant atmosphere. Sherlock found it was distasteful. He thought it was inconsiderate of the weather to be quite so exuberantly, exasperatingly _cheerful_. When someone dies, there ought to be thunderstorms and torrential rain, dangerous and depressing weather. Mummy would have been disappointed, he decided. Not that her opinion mattered that much anymore.

Mycroft hadn’t been aware that he’d been staring at the stained glass window with an expression of intense distaste before a little tug on his sleeve disturbed him. Sherlock was only an inch or so smaller than him despite the age gap, and yet felt the need to attract his attention the way he always had, since when he was only just tall enough to reach Mycroft’s cuff when he stood on tiptoe. Remembering how small and fragile his little brother still was, despite his looks, he was careful to brush away the all too clear emotions displayed on his face before looking at his brother. Sherlock was staring at him with worried blue-grey eyes.

“I think I understand why people cry at funerals now, Mycroft. I’m still not crying, but I think I understand why I should.”

Mycroft nodded. Neither of them had shed a tear, but both had changed, and not for the better. “Good. It’s important to be able to understand people.” Something he knew all too well now, a lesson that he had learnt the hard way. Since mother’s death, a little less than a week ago, he had had talked to more people than he had even seen in almost a decade. For ten years at least, it had been just the three of them, trapped in this monstrous house, kept away from prying eyes and civilisation. The whole world had been forbidden, unaware of their very existence. They’d been forgotten, pushed away into a corner where they couldn’t disrupt the perfect vision of the world. Because that’s what they were, essentially; freaks. They upset the laws of nature, made the world a more difficult place to live. People didn’t like that.

“I think it must be very sad to lose somebody that you like.” Said his little brother, startling Mycroft back into the present with a sharp shake. “I’d cry if you died.” It was a statement, and he did not doubt in the slightest that it was true, but it almost broke his heart to think that he was the only person left in his little brother’s life, even if it was safest that way.

“Well then, it’s a good thing that will never happen.” He answered.

Sherlock shrugged offhandedly. “It might.”

“It won’t.” Although he managed to keep his face straight, a slight edge was in his voice that he couldn’t disguise, and Sherlock noticed it.

“You might fall in love. And then you will die.” He cocked his head as he said it, in a matter-of-fact manner that Mycroft found incredibly antagonising. Of course, it was nothing but the truth, but even so, to hear it said so passively, as if it didn’t matter, as if it was _normal_ , was infuriating. Sherlock had accepted his fate, Mycroft realised. Well, he wouldn’t. There was no such thing as destiny, no soul-mates, only science and fact. They could engineer their lives; ensure that neither of them would ever be put in danger. Because Sherlock was right. If either of them learned to love, it would result in death, sooner or later. If they were not loved in return, it would be immediate. Even if their feelings were reciprocated, they would become mortal, which essentially results in death.

“It won’t happen.” He said, and instead of the quiet confidence he had intended to insinuate, the sentence came out strong and harsh, profusely angry. Sherlock looked slightly surprised. He managed a small ‘oh’ of surprise, and Mycroft realised that he had sounded like he was telling him off.

There was a long, long silence. Mycroft knew he should say sorry, say something comforting, but he couldn’t think of anything. Words failed him. He reflected that they had done that a lot recently. Communication was over-rated. Necessary, unfortunately, but definitely given more credit than it was due. You could manipulate anything to make it sound like something else, twist people’s words without them realising, get them to agree to things that they were opposed to in a few simple sentences.

“I don’t want to live forever.” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

“Why not?”

“Because nothing is beautiful when you know that you will see it fade and disappear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything is worthless when we have all of time, because nothing will last forever. Shakespeare’s plays, acclaimed to be wonders of ingenuity, will join the growing ranks of works lost and forgotten in time. The scriptures will disintegrate, the sculptures will be weathered and smoothed, buildings will crumble and fall. Why would Leonardo da Vinci paint, if he knew that the passing time would turn to dust his beautiful creations? Why would Mendelssohn compose if he knew that one day there would be no instruments to play his meticulously-worked scores? And yet all these things happened, even though it is inevitable that they will be destroyed by time!”

Mycroft wondered at his brother sometimes. He really was young, but he came out with things that Philosophers would have spent years devising. He smiled awkwardly, a little proud. Even so, he wanted to test the theory, glad of his little brother’s distraction. “None of those things have happened.” He said, fiddling with the cufflinks on his left sleeve cuff.

Sherlock rounded on him, passion flaring in his voice. He was so earnest, so assured, and Mycroft wanted to smile at the overwhelming sense of pride that flowed through him. His little brother was growing up. “But they will! There is no avoiding it. Beauty is fleeting, and I cannot appreciate it when all I see is what it will _become_. I will not play my violin, because I know that one day it will become a twisted mess of rotten wood and loosened strings. I cannot appreciate the pretty patterns the light makes as it falls, because I know that the sun will set and the pattern will fade. I know all these things will happen, and I know that I will see them happen, and there is nothing I can do!”

“Yes. Beauty is, as you say, fleeting. Nothing lasts forever. But you see, that is what _makes_ it beautiful.”

“How is mortality beautiful?”

“It’s being able to see that it is better now than it will be. It may not look nice in the future, but it will be now. And really, now is all that matters with beauty. Because in the future, when you look at the twisted mess of wood that is what your violin will become, you will remember the beauty that it once was, and the memories that beauty brings with it, and you’ll be able to smile at that memory, and forget that it is ugly now, because once, it was beautiful. That is what is important. Even though the beauty itself is short-lived, its legacy will last for as long as it is remembered.”

“Oh, I see. I think.” Although he didn’t look confused, he was frowning in concentration, as if already thinking out the next part of the puzzle that was life.

“Well, you don’t have to understand.”

“Now you sound like a philosopher. No, I don’t _need_ to understand, but I _want_ to. I want to know everything I can!”

Mycroft smiled. “Well, good for you. As long as it keeps you occupied, I don’t mind.”

When he didn’t get an answer he looked up from his cufflinks to find that Sherlock was staring at him, bright blue-grey eyes fixed on his greener ones.

“Excuse me? Do you want something?” He asked, a little irritated by his little brother’s rudeness. Sherlock just narrowed his eyes, and suddenly Mycroft felt like he was under close scrutiny. It made him uncomfortable, and he shifted his footing slightly. “What do you want?” He asked again, keeping his voice steady and his posture unnecessarily straight.

Sherlock let his eyes widen and grinned with satisfaction. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” He stated, turning away, looking pleased with himself.

“No there isn’t.” Mycroft denied, knowing that it was a pointless exercise, but trying anyway.

“Yes, there is. It’s so obvious.” Oh, so he was being difficult. Normally Sherlock just sulked and they pair of them got involved in an infinite argument that went along the lines of ‘yes, no, yes, no, yes, no...’ that was childish and satisfying. Sherlock actually putting an observation in there was unusual, enough to make Mycroft take the bait.

“Go on then, if it’s so obvious, what makes you think I’m not telling you something?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh _please_. It was a laughably simple deduction.”

Mycroft looked astonished, and a little appalled. “It... was?”

“ _Yes_. You were fiddling with your cufflinks far more than necessary, which you only ever do when you’re nervous. You went to the will-reading yesterday, and you haven’t said anything specific about it to me except ‘it went fine’, which is very unlikely, especially as you promised you’d tell me everything in detail, and you always tell me absolutely everything that happens in _minute_ detail anyway, which incidentally is one of the many things about you which I find almost insufferable. So, something happened at the reading yesterday that you don’t want me to know about. You’ve been acting off all day, taking unnecessary care with everything, and at the same time trying to act normally, so you also didn’t want me to notice that something’s wrong. It’s something that affects me then, and I’d say that you don’t think I’m going to take it well, going by how worried you’ve been, and also you’ve been trying to be far too nice to me, which is very irregular behaviour, and suggests that you want me to be reasonable about some kind of proposition which I will undoubtedly dislike.”

Mycroft stared, open mouthed. Sherlock grinned at his expression. “I should do that more often if you react like that.” He said. “It definitely makes the tedious task of explaining well worth it.”

Mycroft frowned. “That was intolerably rude, Sherlock.”

“Yes.” He actually looked pleased with himself, despite Mycroft’s scolding. “Now please stop treating me like a baby and tell me what happened at the will-reading yesterday. And if you don’t, I will tell the Vicar that you are attracted to men.”

“ _What_?”

Sherlock grinned happily, as if the whole world had opened up to his command because of that simple statement. “It was obvious, when I looked properly. You’ve always had a soft spot for the grooms, haven’t you?”

Mycroft spluttered, astonished and embarrassed, and completely unable to deny anything. “You are attempting to _blackmail_ me?” He eventually managed to say.

Sherlock grinned. “Not _attempting_. Succeeding.”

Mycroft glowered at him, furiously. “Homosexuality is not acceptable in today’s society.” He muttered under his breath, more to himself than his brother, who looked at him sympathetically.

“Is that what mummy told you?” He said. “I’m disappointed in you, Mycroft. Quite a lot of people are beginning to stand up for the rights of people with ‘homosexual tendencies’ I believe they call it. Haven’t you heard about the ‘Order of Chaeronea’? Oscar Wilde is a member of their organisation, I believe. One of your role models, incidentally.” He gave him a cheeky look.

Mycroft took a deep, fortifying breath. “Sherlock Holmes, we will resume this discussion in private. It is not respectful to talk of such things in a _church,_ of all places.”

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. “So you’ll tell me?”

Mycroft huffed, and growled, and shifted, but eventually spat out. “Mummy left instructions that neither of us should be given access to the house until we were married.”

Sherlock stared at him in frank astonishment, all of his swaggering self-importance vanishing without a trace. “But... it’s where we live! And we _can’t_ get married, she _knew_ that! Marriage is a bond of love, and if we fall in love then... oh.” His brow went from being wrinkled and creased, to being clear, as he raised his eyebrows and open his eyes wide in understanding. “She wants us to fall in love, because then at least we’ll be normal, and to get what she wants, she’s made sure that we can’t have the house until then.”

“Yes. That’s what I thought. She’s also cut us off from our bank accounts, which she had control over, until then. We have nowhere to live, no money, nothing.”

“The only way to _live_ is to get married, and neither of us can!” Sherlock said, quietly, suddenly looking small and childlike again. Mycroft wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he suddenly realised that neither of them was facing their mother’s coffin now, and that they were facing each other, completely ignoring the person that had come here to see.

Mycroft frowned. “Well, technically you can. If you fall in love with someone, then the curse will be broken, and you’ll be able to get married. Not that I want you to, because the risk factor is too high, but it’s technically positive.”

“No, it’s not. I’m in the same situation as you.” He sounded frustrated.

“What? What do you mean?”

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, and Mycroft had to remind himself that despite being so tall, he was really only about fourteen years old. “Mycroft, you can be so frustratingly obtuse! Neither of us can, because _it’s illegal for homosexuals to get married._ ” He almost shouted. Mycroft stared at him, open mouthed, trying to comprehend the statement, and then struggling to repress the uncharacteristically strong cuss that was on the tip of his tongue. They stood for several minutes, staring, before a polite but loud cough from the vestry door interrupted them. The brothers turned, simultaneously, and the vicar took an involuntary step back under the combined pressure of their glares. Sherlock was quite clearly staring at him in a manner which suggested that he should go and kill himself to save Sherlock the trouble of doing it for him, and Mycroft looked like he’d found something displeasing on the sole of his shoe and was preparing to stamp on it, hard.

He coughed again, telling himself that he was clearing his throat, not gathering his courage. “Please remove yourselves from this blessed house of god.” He said, his voice quavering, but with a steely sense of determination that he should be given credit for. Sherlock bristled, and took a step forward, but Mycroft grabbed his sleeve.

“No. He’s right, we shouldn’t be here.”

“But he’s only kicking us out because he was eavesdropping...” He began, angry, and Mycroft interrupted.

“You shouted it out for the whole world to hear in the middle of his church, Sherlock. He couldn’t have missed it if he tried. He has every right to kick us out.”

“But...”

“No!” And he pulled Sherlock out the door by his arm.

The vicar watched them go with an expression of mixed astonishment, distaste and reluctant admiration.

Outside, Mycroft dropped his brother’s arm and turned away, striding out across the grass back towards the house. Sherlock rubbed his arm where he had been gripped roughly and jogged to catch up.

“What did you do that for?” He said reproachfully. “We could easily have made him shut up, it wouldn’t have taken much.” He was whining now, childlike in his actions again. Mycroft was grateful for that. However aggravating it was, he found Sherlock much easier to deal with like this. He’d had a lot of practice.

“You cannot beat up a vicar, Sherlock.”

“Why not? He deserved it, treating us like that, just because I said...”

“I know what you said!” He interrupted, angrily, stopping and glaring at his little brother. “I already told you that it’s not socially acceptable, and hasn’t that last little escapade just proved my point? We’re different enough as it is; don’t go around making our lives any harder than they already have to be.” Taking a shallow, tight, breath, he turned away from Sherlock’s shocked face to stalk back towards the house.

Sherlock caught him up again and walked beside him, easily matching his loping stride. “I don’t see why people shouldn’t know about us.” He offered, almost innocently.

“They can’t know about us! If anyone finds out, we’ll be locked away in an asylum or something! People don’t want to know about us, and telling them makes everything a million times more difficult for everyone involved. It’s better all round if we let them think we’re normal. Sherlock, you can never tell anyone about us, you understand? For goodness sake, this isn’t a game! It’s serious!”

When Sherlock spoke again, it was with quiet acceptance, and perhaps a little apologetic. “I do know that, Mycroft.” He said, but Mycroft did not reply, just kept walking, and staring straight ahead. There was silence for a few seconds, before Sherlock plucked up the courage to ask the question that had been bothering him since almost the very beginning of their conversation.

“What are we going to do?” He asked, and Mycroft felt his anger instantly soften at the sound of the disquiet in his brother’s voice.

“I... don’t know. I don’t know.”


	5. June 12th 1876

Sherlock and Mycroft had taken to having breakfast in the kitchen since their mother’s death. Neither of them was able to cook, and the regular influx of supplies from the nearby village was slowly dropping off, since their mother’s weekly contracts had run out that Friday, and the brothers were unable to pay for any more. They’d not been to church that Sunday either, Mycroft being well aware that their presence in the congregation would not be appreciated by the vicar. They’d been trapped inside the house for almost three days, clinging on, and waiting for someone to come and tell them that they had to leave.

Sherlock had taken to playing his violin continuously, and his limited repertoire was gradually wearing out his brother’s patience. To try and avoid him, Mycroft would take a pile of books from the library and sit in the drawing room, watching the long, tree-lined driveway, waiting for the inevitable carriage to appear. He knew that their time here was limited, and he knew that as soon as someone came for them, they would have no choice but to leave. Unable to think of anything they could do to save their situation, he sat it out, his normally unrelenting patience under constant testing.

Finally he gave up trying to concentrate on the books he had already read a hundred times over, and fell to watching the drive absent-mindedly from the window seat, his legs curled up to his chest, his forehead resting against the glass. His mind was blissfully blank, an experience he had never been subjected to before. Waiting until the sun went down, never stirring, ever watchful, the first movement he made for hours was the gentle closing of electric blue eyes as he let his mind collapse away from his control.

Lost in his deep, dreamless sleep, the first since his mother’s death, his didn’t notice when Sherlock’s playing slowly faded into silence. Nothing broke through the barrier that he drew up around himself as he slept through the fatigue, the stress, the terrifying sensation of _not knowing_ what was going to be their future. Gentle, slow footsteps didn’t disturb him, even when they came so close that he should have felt the warm breath of someone blowing gently across his face. If he hadn’t been sleeping so deeply, he would have woken before warm fingers gently curled around his wrist.

Instead, the contact pulled him back through the void of blackness that had overwhelmed him. He stirred, and then jumped, jerking his wrist away with a cry of alarm and scrabbling against the windowpane to work himself upright. Sherlock stared at him, a mix of surprise and relief etched into his sharp-cut features. Mycroft gave a gasp of relief at seeing that it was only his brother.

“Sherlock! What were you _thinking_?” He hissed urgently, already looking past him and around the room, aware that he hadn’t been keeping watch for a long time, and anyone could be in the house with them. It was dark outside, and though he squinted through the blackness, he couldn’t make out anything in the dark. Sherlock was still staring at him, clearly agitated.

“Mycroft?” He was working his hands together, weaving his long, pale fingers agitatedly around each other, twisting and turning them into unnatural positions.

“Hmm?” Mycroft was distracted, trying to figure out how long he had slept for, and how long it would be before somebody came to find them, but Sherlock persisted.

“Mycroft, please.”

“What?”

“You... your pulse...” He tried, but didn’t quite manage to get a proper explanation out. Mycroft turned to look at him, his attention distracted by his brother’s obvious discomfort.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“You don’t have a pulse.” He looked a little dumbfounded. “I came in, and you were so still, like mummy, I thought you might have been dead, and so I checked, and you were warm, and breathing, so that was alright, but you didn’t... I couldn’t feel...” He stuttered to a halt under Mycroft’s amused expression. Sherlock hated it when Mycroft looked like that. It was his ‘ _oh, my little brother’s being adorable_ ’ face.

“There are plenty of reasons why you sometimes can’t feel someone’s pulse. If they’re cold for example, the veins and arteries natural reaction is vasoconstriction, which is when the blood flow is slowed and the veins thin to try and prevent heat being lost through the skin.”

“Yes alright, I know about vasoconstriction and all that nonsense. I was just worried about you. Anyway, you can’t be cold, it’s midsummer!” Mycroft shifted uneasily.

“Well, there are plenty of other reasons it could have happened.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Mycroft, it wasn’t that your pulse was weak, there was no heartbeat at all!”

“Oh for goodness sake, don’t be overdramatic.” He huffed, not wanting to show that Sherlock’s discovery annoyed him. Many a time he had lain awake at night with his hand on his chest, wondering why he couldn’t feel the comforting thud of his heart beating beneath his skin.

Sherlock lost patience and grabbed Mycroft’s hand, forcing him to grab his own wrist, curling his fingers round to his veins. They stood like that for a long time, Mycroft holding Sherlock’s wrist with his left hand, Sherlock holding his brother’s left wrist with his right, each with their fingers round each other’s pulse points. Waiting. Their skin was oddly contrasting. Mycroft’s hands were spotted with freckles, slightly darker than Sherlock’s pale cream, his skin darkened by hours of riding in the sun. Sherlock would rather hideaway inside and play his violin in the shadows of the house, and his skin was lighter because of it, despite his growing amount of time spent in and around the stables.

They stood in complete silence, Sherlock’s breathing hard and strong, Mycroft’s shallow and quick. Mycroft watched, warily, feeling Sherlock’s tight grip around his wrist, knowing that between them, there was not a single beating heart. He’d known it for a long time. This was just conformation.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled away his hands aggressively and looked up at him, grim satisfaction in the humourless smile that graced his lips. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. What was there to say?

He was saved by the sound of wheels and hoof beats on gravel. Someone was driving a carriage up to the entrance. Mycroft turned away on impulse, breaking straight into a run from standing, and reaching the door only a margin of a second before the bell was rung by the mysterious visitor. He put his hand on the doorknob, but hesitated, turning back to his brother, who had followed him through from the drawing room. Sherlock gave an ever-so-slight inclination of his head, a curt nod. Mycroft turned back to the wood, braced one hand against its rough varnished surface and twisted, allowing the latch to spring back.

Slowly, he pulled open the door, letting the light from the hallway stray out into the night, glancing off their visitor. The man was wearing a long overcoat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, head bent, wide-brimmed hat covering his face. Mycroft coughed and held out a hand.

“Good evening sir.” The man did not move to take Mycroft’s offered hand, but spoke in a low, sot voice.

“You are no longer welcome here.” He stated. “You are requested to leave, or the law enforcers will take this into their own hands.”

Mycroft nodded, withdrawing his hand. “Certainly, if that was the wish of our late mother, then we shall comply. When would you wish us to depart?”

“Immediately.” Came the response. Mycroft had expected as much, but he wasn’t willing to give in without a fight.

“But we’ve had no notice! There has been no time to pack any of our possessions or decide where we are going to go.”

“You’ve known that your time here was limited since the will was read. You have had plenty of time.”

“Three days is not a very long time.”

“It is long enough.”

They stood in silence for a long time, Mycroft glaring down at the man on the front porch who would not even deign to raise his head and look at him. He suddenly realised that the vicar had probably spread the word about them already. They were probably lucky that nobody had come to offer them abuse and violence already. Even this man’s stand-offish hostility was better than should really be expected.

“I see that we are not welcome here. Very well. Sherlock, you may fetch a bag of clothes and some food supplies. I will pack my own bag and then meet you in this hallway, where we shall re-join this gentleman.” He turned back to the man at the door, who was still resolutely looking at his feet. Mycroft sighed. “I assume you have arranged a place for us to stay?”

The man nodded curtly. “You are to be taken to the poorhouse.” Mycroft heard the horrified gasp that escaped his brother before he realised that he probably should have waited to check that Sherlock was gone before asking that particular question. Sherlock spoke for the first time since the man had arrived, his voice high and disbelieving.

“You can’t send us there!” He cried, and Mycroft turned back to him to glare, trying to get him to shut up and do what he was told. Naturally, he didn’t, and would have continued, if the man under the coat hadn’t spoken.

“I can, and I will. You have no choice.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft beseechingly.

“Mycroft, he’s lying, isn’t he? We’re not really going to the workhouse?”

“There is nowhere else for us to go. I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He said, unable to protest. Sherlock stared at him a moment longer, and then turned away to run up the stairs, holding back angry tears. Mycroft frowned as he watched him go, and then faced the man who had come for them.

“Excuse my brother. He is unused to company. Now, if you will allow me, I have my own packing to do.”

The man shook his head. “No point. They’ll take it all off you and sell it anyway.”

Mycroft glared at him. “Even so.”

The man shrugged, still relentlessly studying his shoes, and Mycroft had to stifle a sigh of frustration. He left anyway, deliberately seeking out Sherlock. He was in his room, lying face-down on his bed, burying his tear-stained cheeks in his pillow. Mycroft took a few careful steps forward, and placed a hand on his brother’s back. Sherlock stiffened, and resolutely ignored him.

“Pack two changes of clothes, your washing things, some food, and the most valuable things you can find.” Mycroft whispered. Sherlock sat up, wiping the tears from his face.

“Why?” He asked, intrigued. Mycroft thanked the heavens for his little brother’s intelligence, and its ability to over-run his stubbornness.

“Because we’re going to sell it, and run away to London with the profits. I will get a job and find a house, and then pay for a personal tutor for you so that you can continue your studies until you are able to make your own way in the world.” He explained. It was a glossy, smoothed-over version of his plan, but it would do. Sherlock grinned.

“We’re going to run away to London?” His tears had already dried, forgotten, in the light of the new excitement that lit the young boy’s face.

“Yes, so pack the most expensive things that we can sell, and anything else practical. But you’ll have to make sure that it will all fit in the saddle-bags, ok?”

“Saddle bags? We’re not going to steal the carriage?”

“No, we’re not causing any more trouble in this parish, they hate us enough as it is.”

“So what are we going to do? Sneak out of the back while they’re not looking, and ride away into the dawn on the horses?”

“Exactly!” Mycroft smiled.

“You read too many adventure stories.” But he was grinning. No teenager was ever going to turn down the chance of a dramatic escape, however little heroic action was actually involved. “I've got it. I’ll pack as quickly as I can.”

“Good, I’ll meet you in parlour as soon as you’re done.”

Mycroft left Sherlock pulling his wardrobe apart, and returned to his own room to quickly stuff a bag full of clothes. When it was half-full, he moved along to his mother’s room, and emptied her jewellery boxes into the bag too, making it jingle suspiciously. He was so engrossed in his task, he didn’t hear the steady footsteps in the hallway until he turned away from the dressing-table to see the hat and coat man standing in the doorway, looking triumphant.

“Ah ha!” He cried. Mycroft stared at him in shock. He hadn’t expected the man to be impertinent enough to walk into a stranger’s house without an invitation, especially when he’d given clear instructions for him to remain on the front porch. He opened his mouth, struggling for an explanation. Before he could say anything, there was a soft thump. The man went cross-eyed and limp, his body collapsing to the floor in a steady folding motion, ending with him face-down on the carpet.

Sherlock stood, one arm raised, in the hallway, still clutching the violin case which he had used to knock the man unconscious. He looked pleased with himself, and then frowned.

“I hope that didn't dent my violin.” Mycroft stared, speechless, at his little brother.

“You can’t bring that with you!” He finally managed to say. Sherlock looked put out.

“I don’t see why not. I just used it to save your skin. If I bring it with us, we know I’ll be able to save us if anything else happens.”

Mycroft grinned reluctantly and rolled his eyes. “For that, you can bring it. But you’re carrying it, and if you complain even once that it’s becoming a burden, I’ll throw it into the nearest lake.”

Sherlock frowned.”You wouldn’t dare!” He challenged. Mycroft grinned.

“Don’t try me. Now come on, we have to go before some realises what we’ve done.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand, stepping over the prone body of their visitor, and the two of them scrambled down the back stairs and out across the now-darkened hallway to the side of the mansion, where Mycroft stopped abruptly.

“He won’t have come alone.” He whispered under his breath, barely audible. “Keep close to the side of the house, keep your eyes open, and try to make as little noise as possible. Ok?”

Sherlock nodded and squeezed his hand tightly, excited, eyes bright with adrenalin. They began their careful journey, shuffling sideways along the wall with their back to it and then working their way slowly across the gap between the house and the yew alley. Mycroft was right about the man having company. Another man stood holding the carriage horses, looking grumpy at being left to wait alone in the dark.

They snuck past as quickly and quietly as they could, Sherlock almost not daring to breathe, overwhelmed by excitement and terror. When they finally reached the cover of the yew alley, it was a mad dash to the stables, legs flying and arms swinging. Sherlock found himself being practically dragged by Mycroft, struggling to keep up with his brother’s ever-so-slightly longer stride.

They reached the stables out of breath and panting, still clutching tightly to each other, assuring themselves that they were not in this alone. Sherlock felt like his arm had been wrenched out of its socket, his lungs were burning and legs aching with effort. Mycroft caught his breath first.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” He said to Sherlock. “Wait here.” He carefully began to tease open the door of the tack room, hoping not to wake the groom, who slept in the hay barn next door. When he finally wrestled the stiff door open, the room was dark and quiet. Mycroft fumbled in the place he knew the matches and candles were kept his hand scraping against the rough brick of the hollow. He found a match at last and struck it, but growled in frustration upon finding that there were no candles in the nook.

“Looking for these?” Came a voice from the darkness. Mycroft startled and span around, half-expecting that Sherlock was playing some kind of practical joke on him. A pair of amused, soft brown eyes were just visible in the light cast by the match. Mycroft sighed with relief. It was just Henry, the groom. A bunch of candles appeared, and he held one to the match, lighting it just before the match grew too hot and Mycroft blew it out. The flame flickered, but held, and Mycroft took the light, gratefully.

“What are you doing here?” He whispered urgently into the darkness. Another candle appeared and was lit from his own. The groom held it up to his face and smiled at Mycroft’s expression.

“Hello sir.” He said, grinning. Mycroft found that it was infectious, and couldn’t help smiling back.

“How many times have we been through this? Call me Mycroft, please.”

“Alright. Well, _Mycroft_ , should that be such a surprise that’s I’m here? I work in these stables, after all. I think you should probably know that.”

Mycroft grinned ruefully. “That’s not what I meant, Henry. I’m assuming you went to church yesterday?”

“It was a Sunday, yes.”

“Well, did the vicar say anything about...us?”

Henry hesitated before replying. “Yes, he did. Some not very nice things.”

“What exactly did he say?” Mycroft pressed, taking a step closer to see him better.

Henry swallowed. “Um... that you were dirty homosexuals who ought to burn in hell. That it was unnatural, that you were born sinners, and a lot else besides.”

Mycroft stared at him for a long time. Then “Shit.” He whispered. Henry looked up at him in surprise.

“I ain’t never heard you swear before, sir.” He said.

“Mycroft.” He corrected him. “No, and that’s because I don’t swear very often. Well, Henry, I think you have your explanation. I thought that after hearing all that about us, you’d be clearing out as fast as you could.”

Henry looked even more shocked, and a little offended. “Why should I? Just ‘cause someone said something nasty about you, don’t mean I’d leave your service sir... Mycroft.” Mycroft smiled. “Nah, it’ll take more than some nasty rumours to test my loyalty. I know you, Mr Holmes. You ain’t no sinner, at least not intentionally.”

“Thank you Henry, that is very loyal of you. But I’m afraid the rumours are true. The vicar heard it from our own mouths, as it were.”

Henry looked awed. “What really? You told him what you were? And you weren’t terrified?”

“It wasn’t exactly intentional...” Mycroft began, but Henry interrupted, his eyes wide in admiration.

“Cor, I would never have believed it!” He grinned widely. “You wait till I tell me mates that my master stood up to a vicar like that and told him that to his face! They’ll be so impressed!”

“As flattering as that is, I would rather you didn’t spread around that my brother and I are homosexual. It is not something that I discuss willingly.” Mycroft squirmed, already uncomfortable. He’s spent a good part of the last thirty years being told how wrong he was, how difficult, how unnatural. It wasn’t a lesson that could be easily unlearnt.

Henry was still grinning, but it became a little twisted as he tried to suppress a laugh. “Oh, you needn’t worry, sir. We’ve all been waiting for someone to do something like this. Didn’t want to come out first you see.”

Mycroft stared at him in astonishment. “You... what?”

Henry grinned at him. “Me mates and me met through this campaign group. Nothing big, just making our presence known, putting it about that we aren’t any different from normal people, really. All that sort of stuff.” He said. His speech had improved slightly, and Mycroft suddenly realised that he was incredibly proud of what they were doing, and desperately wanted his approval. He smiled.

“That’s very brave of you. It must be very difficult.”

Henry frowned. “Yeah, it is. People aren’t really that willing to accept us. It’s very disheartening.”

Mycroft laughed. He had never heard Henry use such long words. He got the feeling that his camaraderie was all an act, a facade to stop people wondering about him. Mycroft decided that Henry was a lot more than he had given him credit for. Being open about your sexuality wasn’t really an option, but he was doing the best he could, and Mycroft knew better than anyone how difficult that was.

“Don’t be put out! I’m proud to say that I’ve known you, Henry.”

The groom glowed with praise. “Thank you, sir, thank you. It means a lot to me, sir, it really does.”

“I’m glad. Give my best wishes to your friends will you? I wish you all the best of luck, and wish I could be more supportive.” He shook his head, amazed by their bravery in rebelling.

Henry nodded, and they stood in silence for a few seconds. Mycroft was suddenly aware of quite how close they were in the quiet and darkness of the tack room. Henry seemed aware of it too, but neither of them bothered to move.

“Um... Mycroft began, and suddenly realised quite how intense Henry’s gaze was getting. He tried not to sweat as he thought back to Sherlock’s words from a few days ago; _“You’ve always had a soft spot for the grooms, haven’t you?”_

He suddenly let out a yelp of pain, as hot wax from the candle dripped onto his hand. He dropped the candle involuntarily, and it hit the floor with a thump, snuffed out immediately by the force of the impact. Mycroft cursed under his breath and made Henry chuckle.

“That’s twice I’ve heard you swear tonight, which is more than I ever heard you say before.”

Mycroft couldn’t help smiling, and when he looked up, he was a little surprised to find that Henry was quite so close to him.

“You know, it makes me look at you differently than before.” He said, his voice low, and Mycroft knew that he should reply, but all that he managed was a kind of strangled ‘uh...’, before suddenly Henry had closed the distance between them and Mycroft found that their lips were pressed together. He was more than a little surprised. Still, after a second, he decided that it really was a very pleasant sensation, and he relaxed into it.

Kissing Henry was a very strange act. Their lips seemed to mould together, a battle of dominance, the very slight pushing and pulling a foreign but by no means unpleasant sensation. They broke apart after only a few seconds, and Mycroft found himself smiling into excited brown eyes.

“I ain’t never done that before.” Said Henry, a little surprised.

Mycroft shook his head. “Me neither.”

Henry grinned. “I think we should try again.” Mycroft didn’t have to consent, but leaned down and gently kissed him again. Suddenly it was more passionate, the two of them leaning up against each other, hands cupping faces, then on shoulders and down backs and onto hips.

“Mycroft!” Came a startled cry from the doorway. They broke apart, suddenly embarrassed by Sherlock’s presence. He didn’t give them time to be abashed, but grabbed Mycroft’s arm and practically dragged him out, shoving Gaile’s tack into his hands and pushing him forcefully out the door, crying; “There’s no time for dramatics!” Mycroft couldn’t help laughing at his brother’s impertinence and badly-disguised embarrassment at discovering his brother kissing somebody.

He wandered into Gaile’s stable and began tacking up, settling the saddle carefully and slinging over the saddlebags. Then he slipped the bridle over the mare’s head, muttering to her in a low, comforting monotone the whole time.

“You’re very good with the horses.” Came a voice from the doorway.

Mycroft turned and smiled at Henry. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “I guess you’re gonna be off then.”

His face fell. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t think...”

Henry interrupted him. “No, it’s fine. I only did it because I knew you’d be leaving, and we’d never get another chance.”

Mycroft sighed and ran a hand through his longish ginger hair. “I might be back someday. Will you look after everything while we’re away though? You know, make sure they don’t take the grey mare, don’t let the bees freeze over winter, all that kind of thing.”

Henry nodded, smiling. “I’ll be sure to.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thanks. And in return, you can carry on living here. In the main house, if you like. Sell the honey, make some money. I recon if you ploughed up the land you could make it into a decent farm. We can’t live here, me and Sherlock, but we still technically own it. Don’t let them kick you out. If they do, send me a letter and I’ll come and sort it out.”

Henry gave him an open-mouthed stare. “Wow... you mean that?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh wow... thank you! Thank you, thank you! My goodness, I never thought... wow.”

Mycroft laughed. “You’re welcome. But now we really must be going.”

He took the mare by the bridle and led her out into the yard, where Sherlock had already mounted Squire, who was prancing impatiently. Sherlock had managed to fix some kind of strap to his violin case which was strung over his back, bumping as Squire paced and danced, fighting his bit. Mycroft turned back to Henry, and smiled sadly.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye.” He said.

Henry nodded and took two steps forwards, planting one last, quick, soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips, ignoring Sherlock’s cry of disgust.

“I guess so.” He said, pulling away. Mycroft smiled, but turned suddenly at the sound of shouting from the direction of the house.

Henry looked bemused. “What’s going on?” He asked.

Mycroft swore for the third time. It was turning into quite a night. Sherlock called over, “That wretched idiot’s been discovered.”

"He wasn't going to stay put forever!" Mycroft called back, and Sherlock frowned at him.

Henry looked at him in surprise. “What did you do to him? They sound pretty angry.”

Mycroft shifted, awkwardly. “Sherlock may have accidentally knocked him out with a violin case a little bit.”

“He accidentally knocked him out a little bit?”

“Oh, shut up.” They were both grinning.

Henry turned and slapped Gaile’s rump, startling her into a fast trot that had Mycroft jogging to keep up, his hand still entwined in her reins. “I’ll cover you! Get going!” Henry called, and Mycroft tugged Gaile into a canter, using the momentum of her movement to kick off the floor and throw his leg over the horse. Bent low in the saddle and looking back over his shoulder, he saw Sherlock following closely behind as the pace picked up to a gallop, and Henry stood in the yard, waving.

“Thank you!” Mycroft yelled, the very last moment before Henry saw him disappear into the darkness of the night.

The yelling faded into silence and the steady thrumming of horseshoes on soil as they galloped out across the lawn under the stars, out towards London and a new life. Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to leave his old one behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to everybody who is being so supportive! I'm enjoying writing this so much more knowing that people are enjoying reading it!


	6. July 8th 1876

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, for the next... six(?) chapters, everything is going to very short, very quick, and very important, although it won't seem it. Hopefully updates will be more regular, I've got most of it written, but each chapter is a different time period and the next part happens over nearly twenty years. Anyway, enjoy! And was always, thank you so much to everyone who is reading and commenting and everything, it means a lot. And even more thanks to duchesscloverly for letting me use her work as inspiration!   
> I have officially lost my editor, so apologies for any mistakes, I'm doing my best!

Almost a month. It had taken them almost a month to find somewhere, and he knew he should be grateful for what they’d got, considering their position, but Mycroft knew that it was more than a compromise to their situation. They’d had to make sure they were a good distance from home before he’d been able to go to a pawnbroker’s safely, of course, and then had been dismayed to find that they were offering petty prices and high interest. So he’d been forced to attempt to sell what they’d managed to bring with them, which took far too long. That finally done, they’d gratefully moved on with empty bags and full purses. At least, they were full of little copper coins, but that didn’t actually amount to much. Certainly not enough to keep them going for much longer.

Mycroft was jolted from his reverie in a less-than-comfortable position leaning against the worn, hard leather that passed as a seat as the Hansom cab trundled inexpertly around yet another corner and over yet another ridge in the road. He groaned and sat upright, turning awkwardly in his seat to look at his little brother, who was staring listlessly out through the window. Sherlock was tense, resisting the urge to shiver through his thin clothing, and silently cursing the wearisome journey. He felt that his bones had been jarred beyond repair by the continual abhorrent progress of the cab’s stiff wheel over the London street cobbles.

Mycroft almost wished that they’d not sold the horses, and then at least he would have been spared this terrible journey. And Sherlock’s tantrums, incidentally. Since their last disagreement over it, Sherlock had been sulking in silence. It would have been a blessing normally, but right now he was all too aware that their already fragile relationship was on tipping point. Living rough for a month had done nothing for either of their tempers, and he at least had said some things he regretted. Knowing that his little brother was sulking made his obstinate silence unnerving. He was almost grateful when the cabbie informed them that they were still at least an hour and half away from their destination, and they should catch some sleep.

~0~

**The night was as black as velvet. A deep sense of darkness hung in the air, the smog hanging low and clinging to the streets, stiff and opaque in filtering the weak moonlight. Crumbling brick buildings lined the cobbles street, clearly uninhabited and derelict. Occasionally there was a shop front, smashed, glass scattered on the pavement. The neighbourhood was quiet and almost calm, but under the surface, unnameable things stirred and shifted, causing ripples in the atmosphere. A small, hunched figure shuffled along the street, approaching slowly through the fog that was so think that it stung your mouth and lips and clung to the back of your throat. A shawl that was full of holes hung over her shoulders and covered her bony shoulders, just leaving space for her thin, bony fingers to protrude. One of these she raised in a single, trembling gesture, never raising her head, but pointing, a clear signal.**

**Following the line of her finger brought a shadow to life, the dark shade of an alleyway somehow suddenly becoming the clear outline of a man, stepping forward. He approached the woman and reached out towards her in a seemingly gentle way, but she flinched away from his touch. It came as a shock to see that as he closed his fingers around her arm, she immediately began to writhe and scream in his ever-tightening grip.**

**As if the ritual awoke him, Mycroft rapidly became aware of himself. Without thinking, he was thrusting forward through the fog that had suddenly become as thick as tar, he reached towards her, wanting to pull the man off, wanting to release the strange woman from the obvious pain she was in. Seeming to get nowhere, he tried again, pushing his feet forward, only to have them pulled back painfully, and he made no advance. If anything, the two strangers seemed to be getting further and further away. He tried to call to the man to let go of her, but his voice was swallowed by the fog, and suddenly the screaming leapt tenfold in volume.**

**The woman’s pain seemed to be only growing worse, her furious writhing and straining making her look like she was having a fit of some kind. Then she began to twist and thrash herself into impossible positions, each more painful looking than the last. All of a sudden, her shawl ripped and she threw her head back, only to reveal an all-too-familiar face.**

**“Father!” Mycroft cried, terrified by the gruesome expressions of pain that trawled his father’s features. He renewed his efforts to reach them, but all that happened was that his feet were rushed out from underneath him, and he collapsed excruciatingly slowly into the thick, deep liquid that was sucking him in, hauling him downwards. Struggling against the extraordinary power that dragged him back, he strained his head upwards, trying to glimpse his father.**

**As he watched in horror, his father’s mouth seemed to be yanked open from within, and he bared his teeth to the sky, howling in agony. The fog kicked up into a whirlwind, twisting and roaring around him, gathering up power, forming a tempest cage. As he watched, helpless, the storm began to tear at his father’s flesh, ripping the skin from his face, exposing taught, red, muscle to the wind, until that too was whipped away, leaving a swirling, tumbling skeletal frame, caught in the deepest weave of the wind.**

**Mycroft knew he was screaming, but no sound seemed to come, and he choked on his tears, watching as the typhoon calmed to a breeze, dropping the bones that they had torn apart so hatefully in the little hollow that had been the crux of the storm.**

~0~

His arm was being tugged painfully, yanking it almost out of its socket. He mumbled something incoherent, and then jolted wide awake, suddenly aware of his surroundings. Sherlock was staring at him, one pale hand wrapped tightly around his arm, just above the elbow. Making the connection between his brother and the shaking, Mycroft blinked at him, slowly. Sherlock withdrew his hand and wiped it carefully on his trousers.

Mycroft blushed. He was drenched in cold sweat, shivering, struggling to breathe. It must be the remnants of his reaction to the nightmare, he realised.

“Don’t embarrass yourself.” Said Sherlock, already turning back to glare at the night. Mycroft stared at the back of his head, and then abruptly leaned heavily back against the back of the cab when he became aware that he needed some kind f support. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose, he managed to regain some kind of control.

“Sorry.” He apologised, not really sure why he was doing it.

Sherlock turned to face him, and gave him a brief glance over before turning back to his window, and saying. “Don’t bother.”

Mycroft let his head rest on the wooden headboard, and closed his eyes, desperately trying to forget the dream.

The cab continued to rock steadily to the rhythm of the road pattern, the lazy clip-clop of horseshoes on cobbles filtering comfortingly through from the front.

~0~

A tatty black hansom pulled to a halt by the pavement, wheels creaking ominously at the change of pressure. Two figures tumbled out, their movements slow and heavy, weighed down by fatigue. The taller of the two fished unceremoniously in his pocket and dropped some coins into the cabbie’s hand, already turning away. The cabbie flicked his reins and the cab moved away, leaving the two forlorn young men standing awkwardly on the pavement, scant luggage clustered at their feet.

The younger, slightly smaller boy reached down and picked up one of the cases, finding a leather strap tied loosely onto a stiff, shaped case, and slinging it over his chest so that it came to rest on his back. Then he turned away from the road and joined his brother in staring at their new home. Flicking his eyes over the place, he took in the crumbling doorway, the peeling window-seal, the greying stone walls and dangerously loose roof-tiles. The building was in a state. It was tall and thin, three storeys up - not including what seemed to be a window in the roof which suggesting an attic room – and only two rooms wide. It was no palace. It was more than they had been expecting, but less than either of them had been secretly hoping for. The lack of width was accounted for by the close proximity of the next houses, walling it up tight, trapping it close between them. The whole street was lined with identical houses in various states of disrepair, each pinned in by its neighbours for as far as the eye could see, which was not more than four or five houses down in the midnight mist.

Sherlock fiddled with his violin-case strap which hung across his chest, and tried not to breathe too deeply in the think London smog that tickled unpleasantly at his eyes and throat. Mycroft was still staring up at the building in resigned trepidation. After several seconds of silence, he let out a long hiss of breath, which condensed and clouded in the cool night air. He finally looked at his little brother, who looked back with cold, grey eyes and said simply;

“Bathos.”

Mycroft gave him what could almost have been a smile, and rubbed absent-mindedly at his stinging eyes.

“You have a very extended vocabulary for a fourteen year old.” He teased, half-heartedly. Sherlock huffed in indignation at the implication that he was immature.

“On the contrary, compared to the average fifty year old I have a very limited vocabulary.” His counteract was only partly convincing, Sherlock not having bothered to put much effort into the statement. It hardly mattered anyway; Mycroft’s attention had already been diverted.

“Point taken.” He added as an afterthought, already moving on. He picked up the two remaining bags at his feet and braced himself, drawing his posture upwards and holding his head high, as if steeling himself for whatever was coming next. Striding boldly towards the house, he knew he looked a lot more confident than he felt. Sherlock didn’t even bother to hide his discomfort, but kept close behind his brother, dogging his footsteps and hiding in Mycroft’s shadow, twisting his head furtively left and right all the way as if trying to watch everywhere at once.

Mycroft ignored him and pulled a large brass key from his now-wretched waistcoat pocket, and pushed it into the lock, twisting it in with a good degree of force. When the door refused to give, he placed his hand on the peeling varnish and bared wood, pushing gently. The aged wood gave with a foreboding creak, swinging open only partway before catching on the rotting floorboards of the hallway and stopping abruptly, leaving a wide chasm of complete blackness.

Neither brother was particularly induced to step inside.


	7. April 13th 1889

“Holmes, get the port.” Came the order. The man who issued it had the tone of someone brought up in money, but he sounded slightly strangled, the way all grossly fat men do. The overall effect was not overly enamouring. All the same, Mycroft bobbed his head in acquisition and turned away from the master of the house he now worked in; a fat, pompous man with a bristling moustache and overgrown sideburns, his face currently flushed red with alcohol. “We’ll be in the library.” The man continued, pulling himself to his feet. His companion jumped to join him, a weedy little man with a spotless black suit, matching bowler hat and an expression which made him look like a rat turning its nose up. They made an unpleasant pair, and Mycroft has spent the whole evening so far waiting on them and being subjected to their ridiculous opinions and tales of multiple successes that he suspected were mostly fictitious. Being a butler was the best-paid job he could get, and he had spent a long time working for his promotion. That, however, did not mean that it was either pleasant or enjoyable. It was neither, and yet Mycroft stuck with it. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, really, and it was better than being a footman or a groom.

He carefully filled the glass decanters with ruddy brown liquid and took up the tray. Carrying it through to the library, he presented it to the men, who took a glass each and resolutely didn’t thank him. He knew that they wouldn’t because it was social protocol, and he wasn’t paid to be on the receiving end of politeness, but every time they neglected to be at least cordial towards him it grated across his nerves.

“Alright, Holmes.” His master dismissed him, and he stood back with the empty tray, waiting to be called to refill the glasses. The man continued, oblivious. “Hmm.” He murmured, sipping at his port. “As I was saying, the tyke mouthed right back at him!”

The watery-eyed guest blinked in feigned surprise and interest. “Little devil!” He offered, encouragingly. To Mycroft, it was blatantly obvious that the man wanted something from his master, but the great oaf was too idiotic to see it. In the privacy of his own head, Mycroft cursed the man, happy to know that his salary demanded politeness only on the outside.

“Right. No man in their right mind would stand for that. Took the cane to the boy, and he carried right on straight through the middle of the thrashing. So, he expelled him. Boy didn’t leave him a choice.”

“Well I should think so too. Did he scream? The boy?”

“Huh, not on your life!” The man snorted through his moustache, spitting port all down his suit, which was already unpleasantly tight at the seams. Not seeming to notice, he continued with gruff contempt. “Stubborn little bugger. Well, no school will take him now. I don’t know why they did in the first place. Something to do with his intellect, I think. God only knows what schools are coming to, looking for bright students. They should be looking for students with _bloodlines_. A bit of vip and vigour, that’s what they need in those pansy houses.”

“I quite agree. Though I suppose if he really did so well then they couldn’t turn him away. Wouldn’t look good on their report.”

“Well fat lot of good it did him. All gone to pot now. That’ll teach the boy to loosen his lip. Idiotic, if you ask me.”

“Hmm. What did you say the boy’s name was?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something silly and posh, well above his station. Sounded like a girl’s name. Uh... S... began with an S. Sher...She... hm. I don’t know.”

“I say old chap, are you alright?” Mycroft suddenly realised that the bowler hat man was staring at him in bemusement. Mycroft tried to gather his composure, forcing himself to grip the tray forcefully to suppress his sudden fit of anxiety.

His master turned to look at him in surprise. “Good god man, what’s got into you?” He demanded.

“Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“You look very peaky. Something the matter?” The little man offered, his sharp grey eyes slanting dangerously and he squinted at Mycroft.

“It’s really nothing, sir. Thank you for your concern.” He sucked in a tight breath and told himself to relax. He was being over-dramatic. That boy could be anyone. Sherlock wouldn’t be stupid enough to get himself expelled... would he?

The smaller man hummed and turned back to his drunken companion. “Probably inherited. Old blood and all that.”

“What?”

“The boy’s name.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I don’t think so. Unusual surname, not one I’ve heard in the money recently. Used to be big when my dad was a lad, he remembered dealing with them. The whole family vanished off the face of the earth many a year ago.” He leant forward from his deep leather chair and whispered conspiritally, as if sharing a particularly juicy piece of information. “Rumour has it every last one was killed off by a disease of some kind.” He leant back again, looking pleased at the mask of shock that his companion had set firmly in place. “Now there’s just the common ones left. Only Holmes’ I’ve ever met have been servants of some kind, like my butler here.”

Mycroft dropped the metal tray. It clanged loudly as it hit the floor, ringing through the otherwise pleasant quiet of the house.

“Holmes!” The man cried, his moustache bristling in indignation.

Mycroft scrabbled on the floor for the port decanter, his hands shaking, his forehead beaded with sweat.

“My apologies sir, my apologies!”

“For goodness sake, man! What the deuce did you do that for?” He cried, already standing, but his companion was giving Mycroft a curious look and interrupted, holding a hand in front of the master’s chest, forcing him back into his chair.

“What’s got into you, man? You’re as white as a ghost!” He said, his voice slick and somehow predatory.

“I’m so sorry sirs, I’ve not been feeling well all day. I will excuse myself and return to my other duties sir, then I will cause you no more distress.” He said, bowing his head and retreating towards the door.

“Oh, go home man! You’re of no use here in that state. Go have some time off, and I don’t want you back here until you’re fully recovered, alright?”

Mycroft protested feebly, knowing he couldn’t really object. He didn’t have the power. “I still have duties, sir, I must attend...”

“Oh, be off with you!” His master interrupted, clearly agitated and wanting to get back to his conversation. “I’m sure the under-butler can cope for a few days.”

Mycroft nodded, and backed out. “Thank you sir. Goodnight sir.”

~0~

Sherlock was curled up in bed, his covers wrapped closely around himself, trying to keep out the cold. His shivering was stopping him from sleeping, he told himself. It had nothing to do with the terrible fear that gripped him. Absolutely nothing.

The door slammed downstairs with unusual force. His breath hitched and he held it there, not daring to breathe. He had been alone in the house. Mycroft shouldn’t be back for hours yet, the master of his house had been having visitors, and it was Mycroft’s sole responsibility to ensure the pleasant atmosphere was upheld during such meetings. However, nobody else had a key, and it was not a break in. So, something had prompted his early return, and by the sound of his quick, heavy movements, it was really not a good reason.

“SHERLOCK!”

 _Oh, Damn._ Sherlock thought. _He knows..._

“ **SHERLOCK**!” Mycroft called again, his voice reverberating around the house with surprising volume. Sherlock unwillingly pulled his head out from under his covers and slowly made his way out onto the landing. Mycroft was not generally an angry person. The only person he had ever raised his voice against was his mother, and that had been seldom. Mycroft had long ago perfected the art of quiet threatening that had proved far more effective. Now though, he was shaking with unsuppressed fury, gripping the banisters at the bottom of the staircase so hard his knuckles were white, stark in contrast to his flushed cheeks. His blue eyes were focused so intently on his younger brother that Sherlock almost faltered, but quickly caught himself.

“What is it, Mycroft?” He asked, trying to sound innocent, though his pulse was racing uncontrollably, and he was shivering through the cold, thin, cheap, material of his pyjamas.

“You know _bloody well_ what it is. Get down here!” Mycroft growled, and Sherlock was suddenly a lot more afraid of him than he would like to admit. He had never seen his brother this angry before, not even at their mother. And he was swearing. This did not bode well. He descended the stairs with as much dignity as he could muster in his night clothes, and finally stood on the bottom step in front of his brother, making them the same height, so he could continue looking him directly in the eye.

“Mycroft.” The name came out a lot more imperious than he had intended, a side effect of his nerves. His brother took a deep shuddering breath, trying to calm himself, and suddenly exploded with rage.

“ **WHAT THE BLOODY HELL INSPIRED YOU TO ANSWER BACK TO THE BLOODY HEADMASTER**???” He shouted. Sherlock took an involuntary step back at the force of his wrath and sat down heavily on the steps, bruising his coccyx painfully. “ **How dumb ARE you**?” Mycroft threw his coat on the floor with force, and Sherlock automatically defended himself from the accusation. It was one he’d heard many a time from jealous mouths, which he had learned to ignore, but from his brother, the insult stung.

“I’m not stupid!” He rejoined feebly, wishing he could turn this terrifying version of Mycroft into the mildly annoyed version that he could engage in petty squabbles.

“You bloody act like it!” Mycroft stormed, his anger no less weakened. “Jesus, Sherlock, do you know how difficult it was to get you into that place? Do you know how much it cost? How hard I had to work? Hell, it took me years save enough to send you there! Years of work that you’ve just thrown away! And while I was working, you just sat here on your lazy arse and complained that you were bored! BORED! I should have focused on a proper career, but no, I couldn’t, because the great Sherlock Holmes wanted to go to a _proper_ school.” He sneered. “I gave up everything for you! And what do I get in return? NOTHING! Even gratitude would have been enough, but not only do you not have any manners, but you completely disregard it all and get yourself thrown out!” He finished, panting heavily, unused to the complete black rage that gripped him.

“Mycroft...” Sherlock began, but Mycroft stopped him, fighting for control of himself as well as the situation.

“I don’t want to listen to your petty excuses. I don’t even care what stupid story you’ve got to explain your behaviour this time. I’ve had enough. Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.” Suddenly he sounded tired, as if all the exhaustion from the years of toll had caught up with him all at once.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, and Mycroft deflected him with a tired but dangerously threatening “Sherlock.” The young boy felt his anger increase tenfold at his brother’s impetuous disregard, and something within him rallied him. He fought back, like any teenager would.

“ **YOU NEVER LISTEN**!” He yelled, his voice sounding weedy and childish when he shouted, ridiculously high and cracked with frustration.

Mycroft responded immediately. “You never talk to me!”

Sherlock gave up fighting the hot, angry, tears and instead just brushed them off his face with the back of his hand. “Whose fault is that Mycroft? How can I talk to you when I never see you? You’re... urgh!” He cried, waving his hand dramatically and then letting it drop. Mycroft stared mutely at him, his anger converted to regret, disappointment, sadness. “You’re always working! When you are home, you’re tired and grumpy. You never have time for me anymore! It’s like I’ve just ceased to exist all of a sudden, because you’ve got your work and that’s all that matters.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t have a choice...”

“Yes you _did_! And you chose to abandon me at home, alone, telling yourself that I’d somehow be better off going to school and being the loneliest person in the whole world than being happy with you here and just getting a private tutor! Even you could have taught me! It would have been better than _this_!”

Mycroft sighed. He understood where Sherlock, was coming from, but the boy didn’t seem to understand that there was more to it than that. “No it wouldn’t. If I didn’t get a job, I wouldn’t have been able to feed you, let alone send you to school! I just needed to keep you here, keep you healthy! I would sacrifice anything for that, even our own relationship. And I guess I did, but I would do it all over again if you asked me again tomorrow, because it was the right thing to do! I was never going to choose our affection over your health!”

“You weren’t going to loose me!” Sherlock wanted to stamp his foot and scream, because Mycroft was just being so stupid! “It doesn’t matter how ill or sick or tired I become, I’ll still _be_ here, even if I don’t want to be!”

“Sherlock, don’t say that!” Mycroft looks shocked, scalded by the plain truth.

“Why not? It’s true!” Sherlock’s anger flares again.

“Please, just don’t talk like that.” He sounds scared, and Sherlock recognises the tone. It’s exactly how mummy used to sound if either of them mentioned the curse. Mycroft used to fight her when she was like that. Only now, he sounds exactly the same. That’s when Sherlock realises that his brother has changed. So has he. They’re not the same people that they used to be.

Mycroft is shaking, with fear, Sherlock thinks, because his eyes are tight shut and his hands are braced against the wall as he uses it to stay standing. “You don’t... you don’t understand. You didn’t see... both of them... dying... I couldn’t... couldn’t help...” He’s gasping now, and instead of being sympathetic, Sherlock is infuriated by his brother’s weakness. Mycroft’s supposed to be strong! He’s supposed to be the one that looks after them, the one that keeps them safe. He’s not supposed to have breakdowns and stupid, _stupid_ nightmares!

So Sherlock shouts. “And because you did, you think that somehow makes you better than me?” He cries, an unreasonable tightness clenching n his stomach. He continues sarcastically. “Oh yes, bonus points for Mycroft, because he got to watch daddy die...”

Mycroft blanches, fighting the urge to fall. How could Sherlock be saying such awful things? “I didn’t say that!” He cries, fighting back tears. Why had everything gone so wrong?

“...sympathy points, points for being pathetic...”

“Don’t, Sherlock, Please!” He begs, not being able to take it anymore. In his head, his father is screaming, caught amidst the whirlwind that’s stripping him to nothing but bare bone.

“...points for having nightmares...” Sherlock continues, vindictively, the acid pain behind his eyes driving the words forward which he knows hurt Mycroft more than any physical wound ever could.

“Shut up!” Mycroft moans, trying to escape from the picture, that terrible image that will haunt his dreams forever.

“...points for being mentally scarred...”

“ **STOP IT**!” Mycroft screams, and suddenly his hand is up and moving across. Before he even thinks about it, Sherlock is tumbling away from the force of the contact, landing awkwardly, finally silenced. Mycroft stares at his hand, disbelieving. He slapped his little brother. He remembers the stinging pain when his mother struck him, and is overwhelmed by the urge to cry. He’s just as bad as she was. Sherlock is looking up at him with empty, ice-blue eyes.

They stand in silence for too long, Mycroft slowly regaining control, not trusting himself to talk. Sherlock’s tears have dried, and his expression is completely blank and unreadable. It’s as if he’s been turned to stone. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and hoarse, telling of the emotion that his face doesn’t show.

“Do you want to know why I got myself expelled? Because it _was_ intentional. I planned it.”

Mycroft stares at his little brother, watching the red mark on his pale cheek colour and fade. Sherlock takes his silence as acquisition.

“All the boys at school treat me like dirt. It’s because of my name, because I can’t tell them who my mother and father were. They call me ‘bastard child’. They call me ‘unwanted’ and ‘unloved’, as if my parents gave me away. I can’t tell them they’re dead. You made me promise to that before I left on my very first day.

“It’s because of my brain, too. They can’t understand the way it works, and that scares them. I think some of them are jealous. They call me ‘insane’ and a ‘freak’. They say I have mental issues and I belong in an asylum.

“It’s also because I don’t really have any friends, and I don’t really talk to anyone. That’s their fault, but they still call me ‘loner’ and ‘loser’. You’d think they were pointless names, trivial things that didn’t matter. They stung at first, but I soon got used to it. I could put up with it then, before. I didn’t care about their stupid insults and their baseless, jealous accusations.”

He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for the worst.

“Until last term.” He breathes, finally, so quietly that Mycroft thinks he might have imagined it, if only Sherlock didn’t look so completely destroyed by that one tiny sentence. “I don’t know how they found out. I never did anything to arouse suspicion; I never said anything or told anyone. And yet somehow, the found out about my sexuality.

“They had a thousand more insults after that, ones that _hurt_.  ‘Faggot’, ‘Bender’, ‘Wanker’, ones I’d never even heard before, but I didn’t have to find a dictionary to know what they all meant. I looked them up all the same, but knowing that some of them were factually incorrect didn’t make it any better. People I’d never spoken to started avoiding me in the corridor, deliberately moving out of my way to avoid touching me, as if I had some kind of contagious disease. They would steal my stuff and throw it about, rip pages out of my workbooks, break my pencils, rub mud into my gym kit. They drew on one of my library books, and when I had to take it back the librarian made me pay for it, even though I pleaded that it hadn’t been me. And wherever I went, there were people laughing at me, making faces behind my back and whispering behind their hands.

“It went on for weeks. I thought it couldn’t get any worse, then. I was wrong.” He gave a little gasp and put his head in his hands, struggling to hold back tears of hatred, loneliness, dejection. “Someone took it one step further. In gym class, we were getting changed into our kit, when one of the boys accused me of staring at him. I denied it of course, but they wouldn’t believe me. Then I said something stupid. I said... I said that no-one would want to look at someone as ugly as him anyway. And so he punched me.”

Mycroft wished he could comfort his little brother. Sherlock was now about sixteen, but he was crying the tears of a child, and Mycroft wanted to hold him close, like he once had done, and whisper little comforts to him. God, how he wished he could. But to touch Sherlock now would be a stupid mistake. Sherlock was no longer close to him, no longer willing to let his older brother wrap his arms around him and hold him tight.

Sherlock gave a funny little gasp and continued his narrative, his sentences now punctured with barely withheld sobs. “They all did it after that. They’d throw books at me, push me out of the way in the corridor, deliberately knock me over so I landed on the ground and scraped my hands and knees. One of them punched me square in the face, once. As he went off, I could hear him boasting to his mates that it’d been a good blow, and I’d have a nasty black eye in the morning. Any normal person would have done.

“But I didn’t. The bruise healed overnight. Of course, then they began to notice that something was odd. They could do what they liked to me, but it never seemed to last for long. I turned into a human punch bag. It was like they were testing some kind of experiment. Then last Thursday, a teacher caught them at it. One boy was holding me down, keeping my hands behind my back, while his mate punched me in the face, trying to draw blood. He walked into the classroom when he heard my attacker yelling about me being gay, and a faggot, and every name under the sun. Of course, he asked me if it was true. I’d been knocked about so much my mouth was bleeding, and I couldn’t talk. I tried shaking my head, but he wanted me to talk, and he finally struck me for impudence, and just assumed the boys had been telling the truth.

“They all started after that. Some worse than others. Some teachers would find any excuse to beat me, slashing a ruler or a cane across my fingers. Others would deliberately ignore it when the other boys were beating me or teasing me. I don’t know which was worse. And every day I would come back, and I would have no bruises, and they’d all be amazed, and repeat the process all over again. It was on Monday that something really, really awful happened. One of the boys next to me had a compass out in maths. He was mucking about with it, scratching his name into the desk. Then without warning, he just lunged across and jabbed it into my wrist. I cried out in pain of course, and everyone saw. And so of course, everyone saw what happened next. The compass had broken the skin, and I was bleeding from a nasty tear it had made when he dragged it back. I didn’t get a chance to move away, because he grabbed he arm and held it in full view, staring at the cut while it healed. They all stared, and I think it’s the only time I’ve ever heard them completely silent.”

Mycroft stared at him, speechless. He wants to cry for him, so Sherlock doesn’t have to. He’d had no idea that his little brother, who he was supposed to be protecting, was going through so much pain. The knowledge carves a hole in his heart that aches with guilt and a sudden, overwhelming loneliness. Is this what Sherlock has been feeling all along? Despite himself, he smiles wonkily at the soft black curls crowning the pale complexion of a little boy who is now really a mid-teen. His little brother snivels, still refusing to meet his gaze, and continues his account.

“The teacher sent me to the headmaster with a note to explain. He decided to test it, so he began to cane me. I fought back, tired of being punished without having committed any type of offence. He still saw for himself what happened to my skin, the healing process, and he hated it. He said it was unnatural. He asked if I was some kind of demon. I told him not to be ridiculous. He kicked me out. I told him then that I was glad I’d never have to come back. And I left, and came straight home, and you were at work. You came back three times, but you didn’t notice me. I thought maybe if I stayed at home you’d be too wrapped up in your job to ever find out.” He hung his head, tears still leaking from red-rimmed eyes sore after being hastily rubbed dry. Mycroft stared at his little brother, and wondered how this ever came to be. How did he not notice? How did he not see what was going on? There was so much he wanted to say, but he knew none of it would help.

“I’m sorry.” He settled for, because it needed to be said. It was too little, too late, but it was still something. Sherlock finally looked up and gave him a lop-sided, watery grin that was all sorrow and despair and no happiness at all. Mycroft found himself wondering how a smile like that managed to work.

Sherlock stood, slightly wobbly, and regained his former composure, remarkably quick to recover. You wouldn’t be able to tell he had been crying at all if it hadn’t been for the redness of his eyes and the blotches on his cheeks. Heading upstairs, he walked slowly, placing each pale, bare foot with exaggerated care. Mycroft watched him go from where he was sat on the bottom step, and wondered what had become of them.

When his foot rested on the top step, he suddenly turned, his tears turned to steel-hard determination, and maybe a little desperation.

“I’m not going back.”

Mycroft just tilted his head down once, and Sherlock tilted his back.

~0~

They never mentioned the incident again. Mycroft stayed at home for another two days, making sure his brother was alright. Even so, they didn’t see each other very often. Sherlock immersed himself in his books, a practice he had become well used to over the years. Sitting up in his room, he resolutely refused to come down and join his brother in the living room. He would not play his violin either, and sat silent during meals, shifting his food around his pate listlessly. Nothing Mycroft said would entice his little brother to do anything he didn’t want to, including eating, drinking and sleeping. Mycroft was at a loss as to what to do, but knew that he could stay at home no longer. He needed to work.

He called a goodbye up the stairs, and left a note on the kitchen table telling Sherlock about the meals he was to have, just like he normally did. It was back to business as usual.

Almost an hour after his brother had left, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play. He practiced almost continually for at least three hours, as if to make up for the time he had lost over the last two days. By the end, his wrists ached and his fingers were sore, but it was worth it. Mycroft didn’t hear him play again until almost twenty years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks to duchesscloverly for letting me use her video as inspiration :) Hoping to get this fic finished before exams start in may, but it seems unlikely. Anyway, enjoy!


	8. 5th August 1914

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an official newspaper cutting, taken from the copy of 'The Guardian' that was released early morning on the 5th August 1914, and was how most British people discovered that they were at war with Germany.

_**Great Britain declared war on Germany at 11 o’clock last night.** _

_The Cabinet yesterday delivered an ultimatum to Germany. Announcing the fact to the House of Commons, the Prime Minister said: "We have repeated the request made last week to the German Government that they should give us the same assurance in regard to Belgian neutrality that was given to us and Belgium by France last week. We have asked that it should be given before midnight."_   
  
_Last evening a reply was received from Germany. This being unsatisfactory the King held at once a Council which had been called for midnight. The declaration of war was then signed. The Foreign Office issued the following official statement:-_   
  
_Owing to the summary rejection by the German Government of the request made by his Majesty's Government for assurances that the neutrality of Belgium will be respected, his Majesty's Ambassador to Berlin has received his passports, and his Majesty's Government declared to the German Government that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from 11 p.m. on August 4, 1914._   
  
_A statement made in London last night said the British Note to Germany was sent direct to Sir E. Goschen, the Ambassador in Berlin._   
  
_German troops have invaded Belgium. The Premier informed the Brussels Chamber yesterday, after King Albert had addressed the Deputies in a speech calling on the nation to defend its integrity. Mr. Asquith knew of the invasion when he made his statement in the Commons._


	9. 9th August 1914 – 10th August 1914

Ten o-clock at night, and it was raining outside, the daylight only just beginning to fade. Sherlock sighed and put his book down. He was exhausted. It had been four days since he’d had any sleep at all that hadn’t been disrupted by Mycroft doing something obscure and unnecessary in another part of the house. Not only that, but he had been having strange dreams. It wasn’t that it itself that disturbed him, but rather his inability to retain any information concerning their content. In the small hours of the morning, he would lie awake, carefully analysing and cataloguing his mental and physical reactions upon waking. It got him nowhere.

Wishing for nothing more than to sleep, if only to obtain further evidence, his brain had been triggered into being over-active, causing the most intense form of insomnia he had ever suffered.

Eventually, giving up all hope of respite, at midnight he roused himself and went down to the kitchen to find himself a glass of water and a change of scenery. He was finally, after days of self-inflicted confinement, beginning to tire of his bedroom.

Mycroft found him early the next morning, slumped against the wall, slouched in his chair with his head on his arms. A gentle tugging on his brother’s nightshirt had the desired effect, and Sherlock stirred slowly. When he shifted, his joints clicked and cracked, stiff from his awkward sleeping position. Despite this, he let Mycroft lead him up the stairs and into his bedroom, tucking the thinning quilt around his shoulders to offer a little heat that was hardly needed in the warm summer night. Mycroft was almost at the door when Sherlock’s voice, thick with sleep, stopped him.

“You’re leaving.” He stated, speaking to the empty part of the room in front of him, not bothering to turn and look at his brother who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. His complete conviction unsettled Mycroft.

“What makes you say that?” He replied, careful not to confirm or deny the declaration.

“You were packing your bags last night.” Was the succinct reply. Mycroft sighed. He could tell, just from that one sentence, that Sherlock was angry with him.

“You heard me.” Mycroft hung his head, knowing that his brother could not see how tired and dejected he was. He would never let Sherlock see. As the older brother, he had to be strong. He had to be the one who did the right thing.

Sherlock rolled over and eyed his brother, who immediately stood taller and straighter, collecting himself. “I wasn’t asleep.” A lie. Mycroft had woken him up. But he wouldn’t know that.

 “I was going to tell you.” He said, quietly.

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m glad I found out this way, if the alternative was another one of your notes left on the counter, telling me I needed to find my own food for the next three years.”

“I’ll be back before Christmas.”

Sherlock gave him a look that said quite clearly ‘I don’t believe you’ and turned back to face the wall, pulling the quilt up around his ears so that all Mycroft could see of him was a mop of black curls contrasted against the cream pillow. The movement clearly indicated that Sherlock thought that their conversation was over. Mycroft had other ideas.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” He said. Sherlock didn’t react. Mycroft continued, regardless. “You won’t be alone while I’m gone. I’m hiring someone to look after the house.” Well, to check up on Sherlock, really. But he wasn’t going to say that.

Sherlock completely blanked him. He turned away silently and left.

~0~

He did write a note, in the end. At about six in the morning he placed the little brown envelope carefully on the kitchen table. The letter it contained only explained the new arrangements and little else. It was short and simple and necessary. Still, he couldn’t just leave, despite his best efforts to persuade himself. Picking up the letter again and sneaking into his brother’s room, he left it on the bedside table instead, having found Sherlock fast asleep and gently snoring. With unusually tender care, he reached out and gently touched his brother’s shoulder, squeezing it once before letting go. The cabbie he had waiting was calling for him, and he finally pulled himself away, taking one last look over his shoulder before quietly closing the door and making his way downstairs.

He moved slowly and reluctantly, but eventually he was in the cab and the driver was pulling away from the kerb.

It was then, at that last second, that Mycroft imagined that he caught the soulful, wailing note of a violin, on the cusp of hearing. He wanted to call to the cabbie to stop, to let him get out and go back, but it was too late. They rounded the corner and were gone. Sherlock stopped playing and wondered if Mycroft had heard him. He doubted it, somehow.


	10. 10th August 1914

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's letter.

_Sherlock,_

_The girl’s name is Miss Hudson. She is seventeen years old, but far from incompetent. It would be inadvisable to underestimate her. She will be paid to cook and clean, and in return she will take the attic bedroom. Be cordial to her and see that she is comfortable. It is not within your power to dismiss her, and she is well aware of the fact, so don’t waste your time trying._

_Learn to tolerate her, as she will remain in her current position prior to my return. She starts work in two days time, and there is food in the cupboards that should last you until then, should you deign to eat like a normal human being. I ought to mention that Miss Hudson will likely force feed you. I wish you luck in trying to manipulate her. It really is a rather entertaining display. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve met your match, little brother._

_Behave yourself. I will return as soon as possible._

_Mycroft_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapters are so short, but believe me, either very little or a lot can happen in one day. Upcoming chapters will definitely make up for it! For now, good things come in small packages (like poison).


	11. 12th August 1914

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my lovely new Beta-reader Iriya for correcting this for me :) I have changed a few sentences ever-so-slightly since, so if there are any mistakes, they're all mine!   
> And, as ever, to Duchesscloverly for letting me use her fantastic video as inspiration.

 When the ring at the doorbell finally came, Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. Startled into running for the bell, he was already halfway there by the time he slowed to an engineered, sedate walking pace. Pulling the door open revealed a small, young woman with cropped brown hair and a disconcerting neatness of appearance. She stared at him for several seconds, lips pursed into a tight line, studying him for an unnecessary amount of time before letting her face relax into an oddly wonky smile and offering her hand. He took it, keeping eye contact. Expecting her to be delicate, he was pleasantly surprised by the steady, firm grip that she offered instead. It was practised, of course, but that was perhaps more admirable than it being sincere.

“Sherlock Holmes.” She said his name sharply, and it rolled off her tongue with a slightly reproving tone, and he realised that she had been expecting him to introduce himself. Before he could say anything however, she had seemingly brushed off the little mishap, and continued unperturbed. “My name is Miss Hudson, but of course you know that. Pleased to meet you. May I come in?”

Already picking up her bags, she stepped past him, forcing him to move aside and let her pass. He had opened his mouth to protest at her impudence, but she was already inside, standing at ease as if quite at home and pulling her neat white silk gloves off with the delicate elegance that she seemed to have mastered in her every move. Blinking and giving a telltale slight incline of his head, a gesture of annoyance that Mycroft would have known was dangerous, he shut the door quietly behind her. She was taking her sunhat off now, and resting it on the hat-stand, but her attention was otherwise engaged. Turning slowly on the spot, she took in every detail of the hallway, clearly with a practised and critical eye. Eventually she gave an appreciative little hum, and spoke again. She had her back to him now, her soft yet confident voice thrown back over her shoulder.

“Yes, this is a nice house. You could do a lot with a place like this. Not the tidiest, I see, but there’s definite potential.” Sherlock was shocked by her impudence. In a few short sentences, she had claimed control of their house, suggested that it wasn’t much up to scratch, and that its owners were rather untidy. Yet she had delivered the whole sweeping statement with assurance that was nothing if not insolent. Again, before he had a chance to reply, she cut across him. “Yes, I think I will enjoy my stay here. If you would be so kind as to show me to my room, Mr Holmes?”

It was delivered as a question, but there was nothing optional in her tone. It was an order, plain and simple. Sherlock resented that.

“I’m not a servant.” It was the first time he had spoken, and it did not inspire the reaction he had hoped for, but rather a raised eyebrow, as if something as small as the slight twitch of facial muscles would be enough to affect him.

“I’m sure you’re not.” Was the gracious reply, and he realised that she was mocking him. It wasn’t something he greatly appreciated.

He found himself wondering that she was only seventeen. She was youthful enough in appearance, but her demeanour was entirely different, that of a woman used to having a household under her strict and capable control.

“Well?” She demanded, a command disguised as a polite request.

Unable to think of a suitably cutting reply, he nodded mutely towards the stairs. She smiled another insincere smile before turning and beginning her steady ascent, and he couldn’t help feeling even more disagreeable. Of course, she left her bags in the hallway so he was practically forced to carry them up after her. They were heavy too, unreasonably so for a woman so small and slight. He gritted his teeth and persevered, unwilling to be treated in such a way, but even less willing to be browbeaten by this woman. He would stick it out, he decided, and simply wind her up as much as was humanly possible.

~0~

Sherlock could hear her cluttering about the kitchen from all the way up in his room, her frequent exclamations of surprise, disgust and horror echoing through the house. She’d been at it for two hours already, and he wondered briefly if she was ever going to give up. Certainly by now her patience must be wearing thin. Deciding to check on her progress, he made his way down to the kitchen, and was astounded by the sight that met his eyes.

All his science equipment had been packed away neatly into boxes and stacked in the hallway. The mess that had been gradually accumulating on the kitchen surfaces was gone, and they shone bright and clean, something that he hadn’t seen since they first moved in. The two of them were always so busy, Sherlock with his personal studies and Mycroft with work. There just wasn’t time for proper cleaning.

In the midst of the scene, Miss Hudson was bustling about, making dinner. When she noticed him, she gave him a cursory nod before turning back to the pot. He watched, no, _observed_ her for a while, planning the best course of action. She was a neat-freak, clearly, and quite definitely the quiet and dangerous type. Possessive, bossy, demanding, liked to be in complete control. She shouldn’t be too hard to crack.

She interrupted his train of thought by thrusting the wooden spoon at his chest and chanting a list of instructions at him to keep an eye on the pot while she just ‘popped upstairs for some ingredients’. He was left holding the implement with something of a surprised expression passing fleetingly across his face, to be replaced by anger. This was not how things should be.

It was unnatural somehow, _disturbing_ , what this ‘Miss Hudson’ girl had done. And she was a girl, too, not a woman. Only seventeen years old! What was Mycroft thinking? Sherlock must be older than her, both in body and mind, and yet she acted as if she owned the place. She had only been here for one day, and already she was changing everything, making it all _wrong_. She had touched his experiments! Some of those had been going for weeks, and now he’d have to start all over again. All those chemicals, samples and specimens that he had had to painstakingly collect, acquire and yes, occasionally steal, were all gone. Washed down the sink, of all places! She was lucky that they hadn’t caused too much of a disastrous consequence when they mixed.

He leaned over the sink and sniffed, then took a step back when the smell of rotting eggs reached him. He coughed and backed away quickly, but not before he had seen the telltale bubbles spilling from the plughole, and tendrils of smoke winding their way up through the holes between the metal grille. Running the tap cleared most of the evidence of that, but doing so meant that the drains in the street would smell particularly pungent the next day. He sighed, but brushed it off; it wasn’t like he was planning on going out. He would start restocking once he had got rid of this damnable child. Who cared what the rest of the street smelled like? He had more important things to deal with.

Just as he was wondering what he was actually supposed to do with the spoon, Miss Hudson’s footsteps clattered back down the stairs and she bounded into the kitchen with armfuls of weirdly shaped containers. It was no wonder her bag had been so heavy, if this was what she had insisted on bringing with her.

“These are my spices!” She announced, grandly. “I bought them a few days ago, just before the prices went up when the possibility of rationing was announced. They’ll be wonderful with this sauce. Got to be careful with them though, they’re going to last us the whole war. Here, what are you doing with that spoon?”

Sherlock looked down at the implement he was still holding at arms’ length, which was now dripping cold sauce onto the floor. “You gave it to me.” Was all he managed, but instead of sounding like an accusation as he intended, it came out as more of a squeak. He frowned, then realised that he had hardly spoken two sentences together since Miss Hudson had arrived. She seemed to be able to do all the talking herself.

“Oh, give it here. You were only supposed to stir it, but I guess I didn’t leave you specific enough instructions, huh?” She relieved him of the spoon and went to stir the sauce again. He was just going to beat a hasty retreat to his room when she turned around, and caught him at the door. “Oh, no you don’t!” She said, and brandished the spoon at him. “You clean up that mess you made before you go wandering off, or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

Sherlock bristled with indignation.

_What an expression!_

“You’re not my mother! You’re younger than me, you can’t tell me what to do!”

Miss Hudson stopped stirring, and turned away from the pot, finally giving him her full attention. He wasn’t sure he wanted it, especially when she was eyeing him with such a firm frown fixed in place. Yet when she spoke, it was gently.

“No, I can’t order you around. I’m sorry if I offended you by trying to, but you never opposed me before. It’s my natural way of dealing with shy people.”

“I’m not shy!”

“Quiet, then. That’s not the point. The point is, if you don’t clear that up, you’re going to put your feet right in it when you sit down for dinner. I think it would be a good idea to clear it up, really, don’t you?”

“I don’t eat dinner.”

She sighed, and shifted her weight so that it rested on one leg, the other bending slightly, giving her the look of someone tired of standing, and tired of this whole conversation already. “I thought you said you weren’t a child?” She demanded.

“I’m not!” He denied, outraged.

“Then stop acting like one.” Was all that she offered in return, before clearly giving up on him and returning to her cooking. Sherlock was almost offended that she seemed to have decided that the food was more important than he was, but then reminded himself that it didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t like he needed her approval.

So Sherlock glared at her, but was unable to reciprocate. He cleared up the mess, not to give her satisfaction, but so that she didn’t suspect that he would dare to disobey her so blatantly. He needed her to think he was at least controllable if he was going to pull off his plan. Stifling the smirk that grew at the prospect of his misdeeds, he dumped the tissue paper he had used to clear up the splattered sauce in the bin with a little more ferocity than he might normally have done.

~0~

He did eat the chicken in the end, and it was good, reluctant as he would have been to admit it. Miss Hudson didn’t seem to expect any praise, but was unduly pleased, he noted, when he finished all of it.

If she had asked him to help her wash up, as he had expected her to, he would have refused. She surprised him, however, by simply taking his empty dish to the sink and washing it out with a practiced hand. He sat at the table as she washed, dried, and put away every single item she had used. When she had finished, the kitchen was empty and dull, lacking in any _character_ that may have been loaned to it by the presence of a hundred glass beakers and test tubes. The dust quantity was considerably lacking, there were no cobwebs hiding in the corners, and no dark corners for interesting insects to hide in.

The room was light, and bright, and empty. He hated it. She didn’t seem to notice.

“What do you do after dinner?” Miss Hudson asked, conversationally, sitting opposite him.

Sherlock frowned. “Go upstairs.” He answered, hoping that she would understand that he was implying that they went to sleep. It wasn’t entirely truthful, but he would usually spend the evening working on one of his projects or experiments, the practical side to the theoretical study that he conducted during the day. It would work in his favour if she would be polite and follow the traditions of the house.

He did not expect her to say that she would like to stay up and read her book for a while longer. Finding himself effectively dismissed, and watching her retreating back as she entered the sitting room, he was at a loss as to what to do. Any more study would be wasted now. It was too dark to do any proper work, and that left him with only two options: practise his violin, or go to sleep. He didn’t even consider joining her, and he wouldn’t be able to even consider sleeping until much later anyway.

Well, what would be the harm in playing? Miss Hudson had apparently formulated her opinion of him already; Shy, withdrawn, probably lazy, few hobbies worth any merit. He would show her.

For the next few hours, he played almost continually, flowing one piece into the next with barely a space to breathe in between. By the end, he was tired and his hands were sore. He hadn’t played so much since the night before they had left home, all those years ago. It was worth it though. It was almost half past eleven, and he could finally make out the sounds of Miss Hudson beginning to move around downstairs. He assumed that she was retiring to bed, and was proven correct when almost twenty minutes later her footfalls could be heard making careful progress up the stairs.

Sherlock, listening out for it, heard every step she took, especially the ones where she trod unwittingly on a creaky floorboard. He had the upper hand in that respect; he had committed every inch of this house to memory, and could move around without making a single sound. Sure enough, by the time the grandfather clock in the hall stuck midnight, he was standing in the kitchen, barefooted, pyjama-clad, shivering with cold and grinning mischievously.


	12. 13th August 1914

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the previous chapter.  
> Many thanks to Iriya, who is Beta-reading this for me, and to Duchesscloverly for letting me use her video as Inspiration :)

Out in the street, there was just enough light from the moon in which to see basic outlines and shadows of objects and occasionally people. The same moonlight shone weakly through the window, but the little light it offered was feeble and minimal. It was dark in the kitchen, Sherlock not having dared to turn the light on in case it woke Miss Hudson. The sound of muffled snoring was filtering through from upstairs. She was fast asleep.

Moving stealthily, he pattered across the room, his toes tapping against the cold tiles as he moved. When he reached the doorway where the boxes were stacked, he reached forward sand carefully took the top one, manoeuvring it back across the room to the table. Setting it down, gently as he could, the glass beakers and test tubes were still jolted enough to rattle and clink, the unwelcome noise echoing through the dark. Sherlock froze, listening intently, but all was still. Miss Hudson’s snuffling continued undisturbed. Letting out a silent breath of relief, he continued moving the boxes about until every single one was back in the kitchen. Only then did he begin the methodical task of unpacking, setting all his equipment out exactly the way it had been before.

It took him a long time, longer than he had expected it to, and far longer than Miss Hudson had spent packing it all away in the first place just a few hours before. He persevered, using his incredible memory to be able to place every single item back in the exact position it had been in before, until the steadily growing spread of glass containers and various scientific tools covered each and every surface. It was not nearly as colourful as it had been; all the bottles, beakers and basins were empty and clean, no trace remaining of the odd rainbow of colours that they had once contained. Instead they shone a dull white where the weak moonlight just touched them, blending into the greyscale that the kitchen became at night.

By the time the first dawn sunrays were beginning to creep across the city and bring colour back to the scene, the kitchen had been returned to its usual state, or as close as Sherlock could get it; there was no feasible way to bring back the cobwebs, dust, or chemical stains that Miss Hudson had resolutely scrubbed away. In the early morning light, it looked rather like a rather overzealous cleaner had descended on the scene and polished everything to within an inch of its life, and yet somehow managed not to disturb the position of even the smallest glass pipette in the process. Sherlock looked around him and smiled. He was rather pleased with the result of his labours.

Everything was back exactly the way he liked it.

With a curt nod of self-satisfaction, he abandoned the scene and snuck back to his room. Heading upstairs, he was careful to avoid the floorboards that he knew creaked and stuck to the carpet wherever possible, muffling the sound of his feet. It was just hitting six when he reached his room, and Miss Hudson was beginning to stir.

 _Early riser_ , he thought, and stored that little bit of information away in his brain for later use.

He crawled back under the covers as quietly as he could, and positioned himself to face away from the door, so that all Miss Hudson would be able to see of him was the back of his head and the unruly mop of black curls that adorned it. Surely enough, the first thing she did – once washed and dressed – was to check on him, and he heard her humming happily as she made her way down to the kitchen, presumably to make breakfast. If he strained his ears, he could just make out the sound of her soft slippers ticking against the wooden floor, and then the tiles. Across the landing, down the stairs, through to the kitchen... stop.

He held his breath.

There was silence for several seconds. If Sherlock had a pulse, it would be racing, heart beating wildly against his chest. As it was, just the flow of adrenalin was enough to make him dizzy on the excitement and apprehension.

He expected a scream of outrage, storming up the stairs, stamping feet and being forced to tidy it all up.

He did not expect an outburst of hysterical, almost maniacal laughter.

Sitting up in bed, startled, he listened as her footsteps ascended the stairs again, the full-belly laugh having receded to a giggle that clung on, refusing to fade. Her progress was hampered by her mood, but when she finally reached his room and leaned against the doorframe to support her shaking frame, tears of mirth were streaming down her face. Sherlock stared at her, astounded, until she finally managed to take two deep breaths and exclaim:

“You could have just said!”


	13. 7th February 1919

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war is over. It's left lasting damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Iriya for beta reading for me and putting up with my continually abominable misuse of the English language, despite regular efforts to remind me how to use hyphens properly :) I've been annoying again and made tiny weeny mini-edits since it's been gone over, so any mistakes are entirely mine! Sorry! I'm a terrible person who can't read her own writing over more than once without editing it again... oops!  
> As ever, thanks to Duchesscloverly for letting me use her video as inspiration and probably completely misinterpreting it! It's a lot of fun :)  
> And many thanks to everyone who's reading, and leaving kudos and comments, it means a lot to me! Probably more than it should, quite honestly.  
> Thank you everybody! And enjoy!

The war was over, and had been for several months. Britain, along with the rest of the world, was still recovering, and slow progress was being made. Bit by bit, the city was putting itself back together. No longer did people carry their gas masks, nor wore expressions of terror and panic. Instead, some wandered with complete hopelessness, having lost family members; fathers, sons, uncles, cousins, grandfathers. There were always those who had known, had been informed that the war had destroyed them. Telegrams proclaiming their loved ones lost, killed in action or dead of their wounds. Hundreds of little yellow paper squares, impersonal messages that were sent out in such abundance that their carriers became known as ‘The angels of death’, a name whispered by children in alleyways, and behind hands over garden fences.

And every single face wore the same expression, the emptiness that told their story in its own words, always beginning with that fateful phrase that everyone knew: “We regret to inform you...” The sentence never needed finishing. Five little words and a slip of yellow paper were enough to break a nation. Because it was not the war that had broken Britain, but the people. Together, they could hold strong. In the aftermath, when everything collapsed and the reality was suddenly  _here_ , the nation was made of lost and broken individuals. They were the ones who lost everything they were fighting to save. He saw them every day, going about their lives as if they would get through by sheer resolve, would somehow save everything, even though it was too late. The only way to hold strong was to keep going, because otherwise you just... stopped.

 

Worse were the ones with false hope; ‘Missing in action.’ Because there was always the chance, always the possibility, that those three words didn’t mean the end. They would wait, and hope, and as the days passed more and more of them would cease to believe. It was too easy to fall into the trap of not thinking. It was too easy to give up fighting, now that there was nothing left to fight for.

 

Babies wailed off in the distance, shushed quickly by quietly despairing mothers, offering a desperate kind of love, which they themselves were bereft of. In the silence of a grief-ridden London, their cries echoed eerily around the park and surrounding streets. Every now and then gentle steps would pass by; footfalls deadened by the soft, dark soil pathways criss-crossing the once green lawns of the park. Never hurried, the pedestrians were always sedate, hiding forlorn hopes with a mask of steel-hard resolve.

 

Mycroft opened his eyes, no longer able to block out the sound of London mourning. The bench he had found was cold and hard, but he didn’t notice, or even particularly care. He was too busy being relieved, as he was every time that he now opened his eyes, that he _could_ see. London was a poor sight for eyes weary of such traumas, but it was better than no sight at all.

 

He knew he would never forget the absolute, all consuming terror the blindness had brought.

 

_His eyes had burned, and he had rubbed at them, involuntary tears induced by the tear gas that had irritated the sensitive tissue of his eyes. His nose, his mouth, his throat and his lungs were searing with pain caused by the relentless attack, the chemical forcing its way into his body and blazing a trail of sore, chastising rawness that ached for curing. He longed for anything that could stop this, stop the pain, stop the terrible convulsions that his chest was forcing out._

 

_Struck to the ground by the strength of his coughing, his struggling only_ _brought_ _him closer to the gas, which was thick and dense, lying close to the ground. He grappled desperately for the muddy side of the dugout, fumbling frantically for a handhold to pull himself upright, only to have the coughing thrust him back down until he was kneeling in the mud, struggling to breathe, striving to separate his swollen, encrusted eyelids. He could see nothing but blackness, his panic cutting off his focus and leaving him with constricted throat and chest. His lungs felt like they were being torn apart from the inside, the membrane being peeled off layer by layer. Every breath hurt, forcing air through his tightened throat into his shredded lungs. Every cough was pure agony, the vigorous strength of each and every one wracking his entire frame, tearing a cry of pure anguish from his gas-ravaged body._

 

_The screams of his fellow soldiers surrounded him, all of them coughing, retching, or trying to call for help. Right by his side he could hear his sergeant sobbing in agony, thumping against the dugout walls with incredible force as he thrashed and rolled on the ground, as if trying to tear out his eyes, desperate to find a way to stop this terrible pain that consumed him. From behind him, in the main trench, another voice he recognised gasped a strangled cry of anguish, caught in the throes of the poison._

 

Catching his breath, Mycroft forced himself to push away the memory potent enough to bring miserable tears to his eyes.

 

Nobody paid attention to just another man in uniform, with haunted eyes that spoke of terrors they could never imagine, another of the walking wounded to join the ranks of the soldiers who had returned from battle not quite whole; not quite healed. He was one of the hundreds, thousands, of men who walked the streets of London. Home, but never quite returned. Part of them rested on the blood-soaked soil of a foreign field that could never be forgotten. He was one of the many, another seemingly soulless body they were used to seeing wandering with no destination. Alone among the ranks of the broken, those who cannot forget, those who were part of the lost generation. The people they had left behind saw them everyday. It was nothing new. Horrors that had been brought home from the war that they could not understand, and no longer tried to offer condolence for. 

 

Mycroft put his head in his hands and inhaled deeply. Still, nobody gave him a second glance.  Somehow, forcing himself to forget that torment which he had suffered dredged up another scene from his past, one that was a hundred times worse and on an entirely different level.

 

 **** _You will pay for what you did to me, you and your wretched, miserable family._  
You will pay for taking this from me  
I will force you to suffer, mortal.  
I shall take away what you value most, and make it so that you may never treasure them again.

 

_He was trying to move forward, trying to reach his father, who was struggling under the onslaught of words. Too far, too far away, he couldn't move fast enough. Every step drew him back further, until he was only a shape in the swirling fog, an outline, a picture that couldn't be real._

 

**_Listen to your sons suffer as I lay the curse on them, listen to their pain, and know that it is you who did this to them, fool of a man._ **

****

_He felt the focus change, the owner of the voice turning the full force of his anger onto them._

 

**_Children,_ **

 

_Pain! The voice stung_ _, its_ _power overriding every other thought, every other sensation, until all he could think of was black, and pain, trapped, struggling, weakening with every breath._

 

 **** _Let all time be your prison,_  
Let life everlasting be your cage,  
as trapped forever a gift becomes a curse,  
So be cursed, and endure for eternity.  
I curse you in living and in breathing,  
I curse you in being and believing, in screaming and in suffering, in speaking and in silence.  
I curse you in motion and in rest, in sight and in blindness, in dreaming and in reality, in deceiving and in truth.  
You shall be cursed, and the curse shall last for as long as you live.

****

_Terrible pain, wrenching at his heart, burning, his blood boiling in his veins, scalding every cell of his body. Hopelessness, despair, he wished for nothing more than to be able to stop this, stop this, stop this..._

 

**_And lest you forget the power that I wield, know that there is only one way for the curse to be broken. Mortals are weak, and that weakness shall be your downfall and your redemption, for if you embrace your mortality it shall be in the form of that greatest of the failures of mankind; it shall come in the form of love._ **

 

_Someone screaming, in pain, or in despair, he didn't know. Him? No, someone was screaming his name, and another name, but the blackness was making it hard to think, swallowing him up, wandering tendrils creeping through his brain, staining everything, black._

 

**_Should the curse be broken in this way, then you may mistakenly call yourselves free, until you remember this last power which I am able to inflict on you. You are able to fall in love, and what good it may do you, because the heart is a precious thing to a mortal. Without a heart, you cannot live. Without a heart, you cannot survive._ **

 

_Burning... the smell of burning flesh, burning hair, a hundred different tones, every sense heightened_ _, revitalised_ _, to feel more pain, the voice ringing through his ears like waves of blades, slicing through him, his thoughts, until he could feel only the pain._

 

**_Give your heart to another, and give it fully, but if they cannot return it then you will be but a shell of a being, and I will take you with me to my hell in the earth, for no mortal can live without his heart if he has given it away._ **

 

_Pain... all-consuming, soul-destroying, all that was left, all he could feel, all he could understand, all that there was..._ _everything... pain... stop... please... stop..._

**_May you suffer now, but as I lay this curse, remember what I tell you now: This will become heaven to you, this which you now call suffering. It will become your release, your escape, preferable to the eternal life that you must live._ **

 

_...pain..._

 

**_I call upon the demons of hell to lay this curse upon you two._ **

****

_Sherlock!_

 

Mycroft jolted back into reality with a shock, startled by the sudden return of a memory he had thought he had lost. Ears ringing from the force of the voice, he was left reeling. He closed his eyes, and desperately tried to recall every single detail, but the words, scorched into his vision and inscribed in fiery letters on the inside of his mind, were already fading, along with the aftershocks of the terror, the complete _terror_ that had gripped him entirely.

 

Think! It was important, even vital, that he remembered every word, and yet he could not recall a single one. What had been said? What had the words been?

 

But the blackness was still swirling through his mind, blocking his vision, he couldn't see the data that he needed and which he could tell was already fading. The fog stopped him focusing, stopped him thinking, and he couldn't get to it, couldn't think straight. He tried to push the blackness away, and the last few tendrils wisped away like smoke, to leave his head clear, and empty. There was no memory, no recollection at all. What had he been trying so desperately to recall?

 

Eventually, he gave up, and opened his eyes, thankful for the sight that greeted him. Everything was still there; the little oasis of near-silence containing the park, the trees, the people, a small part of  heaven surrounded by the jungle of buildings that grew so much taller than the treetops, and Mycroft that they were reaching towards the sky for miles and miles on every side. The thought was strangely comforting. He  _knew_  this city. It was where he belonged, and he knew every street and roadway like the back of his hand. Gone were the lines of trenches and dugouts, marked out in barbed wire and blood. The city was dangerous, yes, but compared to the war it was heaven. It was his safe haven, his home turf. He belonged here.

 

Speaking of which, it was time to get back. Six years was a long time, and a few more hours made no difference, but now the bitter cold was beginning to seep into his bones, an unwelcome feeling that he had grown far too used to.

 

The break had given him time to collect himself. He was ready now.

 

Time to go home.

 

~0~

 

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” Miss Hudson was calling up the stairs to him.

He quickly analysed her voice, deliberating if he could get away with ignoring her. However, it wasn’t her usual tone of annoyance or frustration; he wasn’t required to move yet another experiment, nor was he being summoned to a meal, or to be dragged into helping with a chore of some kind. The call had been high-pitched, a telltale sign of agitation or elation, and judging by the summons being accompanied by the light tip-tapping of her feet on the floor as she jumped up and down, it was far more likely to be the latter. Something dramatic then, something that she had been waiting for with great excitement, he thought.

 

Well, the armistice had been months ago now, all the way back in November, and ever since there had been a steady stream of troops returning, some in a better state than others. Ever since it had been announced that Germany had surrendered, Miss Hudson had been on edge, cleaning and tidying almost constantly, snapping at Sherlock more than she usually did, berating him constantly to tidy up his experiments. He had responded ferociously at first; there was only a certain amount of being ordered around that he would tolerate, and that line had been crossed multiple times. Miss Hudson and he had reached an agreement, of sorts, after she found the third liver in the refrigerator.

 

That wasn’t the point though; what mattered was that pulling all these little observations together led to only one conclusion:

 

Mycroft was home.

 

For the split second that it took to follow through his train of thought, he stood stock-still, his only movement the agitated back and forth flickering of his eyes. Reaching the only acceptable conclusion, he turned to his desk and carefully extracted the violin from its case.

 

Miss Hudson was calling him again, but he ignored her and began to bow, casting back to that early morning over half of a decade ago, when he had played Bach for an audience he wasn’t sure had heard.

 

Closing his eyes, he listened, not just to the music, but to the click and scrape of the front door opening accompanied by the shuffle of boots in the hallway and a bag of some kind, a knapsack at a guess, being dropped on the floor. Miss Hudson and Mycroft talked together for a good few minutes, and all throughout their conversation the gentle hum of their quiet voices could be heard, followed by a steady tread on the stairs, and then the measured stride of booted feet along the hallway.

 

The last note of the sonata’s first movement died just as the door swung slowly open, propelled by the gentle pressure of a hand on the woodwork, which remained in place even when the doorway was fully clear of any obstruction. Sherlock set down his violin with far more care than was technically required, taking his time so that he could study his brother for longer.

 

Mycroft was a mess. He was still wearing his standard-issue uniform – faded moss green woven jacket and matching trousers – but he was scruffy and dilapidated, and his once-neat uniform was streaked with mud and blood, the coarse material ripped in several places. There was a nasty scar, newly healed, just over his left temple, still framed with the dry blood that had once leaked from an open wound. When he stepped forward to offer Sherlock his hand by way of greeting, his knuckles were rubbed red-raw and sore, his palms blistered and calloused under Sherlock’s own smooth, soft fingers.

 

The handshake was far firmer than had been usual for them before; Mycroft’s fingers were pressing into Sherlock’s wrist with an almost painful amount of pressure. The strength of his grip allowed Sherlock to feel just how thin he really was. There was barely any meat on him, his bones far too close to the skin for comfort. There was an ever-so-slight tremor there too, when he let go and his hands hung by his sides.  However, his steel-grey eyes were are strong and piercing as ever, full of his usual intelligence, as he looked his little brother over.

 

Despite everything that Mycroft’s appearance said he’d been through, his resolve had remained strong. Sherlock found that reassuring somehow, though he wouldn’t have been able to explain why. Satisfied, he drew back, forcing Mycroft’s fingers to release his pulse point and inclining his head slightly.

 

Mycroft shifted in his boots, which were quite obviously several sizes too big, and said:

“You look well.”

 

“You don’t.” Was the reply, and Mycroft smiled, but then winced at the pain that caused and his expression dropped back to a frown.

 

“You haven’t changed at all.” The comment he gave in return, as they settled back into the gentle teasing and testing that had become their most common way of communicating.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve learnt more.”

 

“Good. That’s good.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Perhaps, if they had been normal people, they would have enquired after the well-being of the other, expressed joy at having been reunited after such a lengthy separation, maybe even conversed shortly about the weather.

 

Perhaps, if said ‘normal people’ had been watching the brief reunion, they would have thought that the two brothers were being short and impolite, possibly even rude.

 

Sherlock and Mycroft knew each other well enough to understand that nothing more need be said. The state of the other’s health was quite obvious to both of them from a quick glance. Neither had it in their nature to be expressively sentimental and so refrained when it was not required. As for the weather, it is not possible to have a more tedious conversation starter, especially when neither party was really willing to engage in said conversation. Why bother?

 

“Dinner’s ready!” Miss Hudson called from downstairs.

 

~0~

 

_Pain... burning... stop, please... make it stop...  pain..._

“Mycroft!” A whisper of a voice just pierced his dreams.

 

_Someone calling his name... who? Father? Father? Here... we’re here... Sherlock..._

“Mycroft! Wake up!” The whisper was more urgent, accompanied by someone shaking his shoulders, their breath ghosting across his face. He opened his eyes and blinked in the sudden bright light, staring up at his brother.

 

“Sherlock!” He sat up, shocked into moving, then winced. “Ouch! My throat feels like it’s bleeding.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the metallic liquid on the top of his mouth, and his gums, and the peels of skin rolling away to leave the flesh underneath open and sore. “My god! It’s been ripped to shreds!” He frowned, wondering what on earth could have caused such a reaction. What had he been dreaming about? Why had Sherlock woken him?

 

Sherlock shrugged, moving back from where he had been hovering, right over Mycroft, obviously having been trying to shake him awake.

 

 “It’s hypothetically possible. You were reciting the curse in your sleep, I think, and if you were then seeing it’s an incantation intended to be spoken by demons and suchlike, not human beings, it would make sense if it caused you some kind of distress.”

Mycroft stared at him, dumbfounded.

 

“...demons?” The word grated against the pain in his throat, even though he could feel that it was already healing, it was still painful.

 

“Oh please, I do have _some_ memories of that night. I remember what that thing looked like. The one that said the curse.”

 

“You do?” Mycroft couldn’t hide the shocked expression, didn’t even bother attempting to. His brother matched it with one of his own, eyebrows raised and eyes open wide.

 

“You don’t?”

 

“No! I remember the curse itself, and what happened to father, and then us, but I can never see anything.” Mycroft said, letting the frustration creep into his voice and raising the volume.

 

“Sh! Keep your voice down! I don’t think Miss Hudson heard us, but don’t wake her!” Sherlock hissed, alarmed. Mycroft took a deep breath.

 

“I can hear the voice, and even feel the pain, but I don’t remember seeing the actual thing, only father’s... what happened to him.” He whispered, his voice barely audible, even to Sherlock. “I don’t... do you believe in everything? The whole... do you think demons exist?” Mycroft sounded doubtful.

 

“It’s rather hard not to, in the face of the evidence.” Sherlock returned, quietly, settling himself on the end of the bed. Mycroft drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them, leaning back against the headboard of his bed, the first he had slept in for many, many months. He had hoped that getting back into a proper bed would help with his nightmares, but apparently not. At least he didn’t remember what he had been dreaming about. He could feel the cold sweat still beading on his forehead, and lifted an arm to wipe it away, remembering too late that his scar still stung when touched it and wincing. Sherlock shifted, uncomfortably, and tucked his bare feet underneath him. He knew this was difficult, coming to terms with the reality.

 

“It doesn’t make sense!” Mycroft exclaimed in as loud a whisper as he could manage, exasperated. Sherlock frowned.

 

“It does, actually. A lot of things that scientists can’t explain could be put down to ‘paranormal’ phenomena, which are events actually caused by the movement of such creatures from their universe to ours.”

 

“A parallel universe?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“They can get through to this one?”

 

“Yes. They don’t choose to often though, unless there’s something wrong in their own.”

 

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was actually impressed that his reaction hadn’t been worse. Better to be asking questions than to be completely disbelieving. As if he’d lie about something like this.

“You’ve been investigating.” Mycroft stated, already resigned to the fact.

 

“Obviously. I haven’t found much, though. I’ve taken to calling their version of the world Hell, if only for convenience. I think it’s a parasite universe, drawing on something from ours. I’m not sure what yet, but I have a few theories.”

He launched into his explanation, reeling off facts faster than Mycroft could think. Even delivered at a whisper, it was impressive, though difficult to understand.

“The demons are carbon-based life forms, like us, except as far as I can find they don’t feed on anything material, which makes no sense. They don’t _appear_ to feed on anything, which is odd, because obviously they generate energy from somewhere. However, if my theory is correct, the human soul, which is entirely metaphysical in our world, is physical in theirs. If they transfer, which I think they do, then the souls aren’t conscious as the essence of life, as I’ve discovered human consciousness cannot be transferred intact through the barrier. So, when a human being dies on earth, the demon may occasionally transfer the idea of their soul to the other world, where it becomes physical, and then they may be able to somehow process it to create energy. That is my only theory currently as to where they obtain their energy from. There are actually very few of them, only twenty or so, I think, so it’s very rarely they need to kill people in order to take their souls, though they are capable of it when provoked, as we’ve seen demonstrated...”

 

“Stop! Sherlock! Please, give me some time to think. It’s a lot of information all at once.”

Sherlock nodded, and stopped, knowing that anyone would need time to process all the new information, especially when it went against everything they had ever attempted to believe about the world they lived. Even so, it was a tedious business, waiting for Mycroft to catch up.

 

His mind had always been ordered, even when he was very young, and it had come as a great shock to discover that nothing was quite how he had been told that it was. Of course, he had never believed the fairy stories, stupid tales with ridiculous fantasies and impossible plot lines. Even some of the more gruesome ones hadn’t interested him. All he’d wanted was the truth, things that only science could explain. Even now, he still remembered his first experiments, the books, the discoveries, the thrill of conducting a successful investigation. He had been eight when he had devised his first on his own. He still remembered the day, and fuzzy though the memory was, he treasured it. Life had been good once, even with mother constantly telling him off, even though father was never home, even when Mycroft wouldn’t assist him with his science, although those occasions were, admittedly, rare.

 

Mycroft was lost in his own memories, trying to draw anything, anything, that might give him a real clue. He didn’t remember anything about the demons. He had suspected of course, and wondered many a time, when lying in the trenches in northern France, whether his fallen fellows were going to ‘Hell’, though his idea of the place was apparently very different from the reality. It had been a terrifying thought at the time. It still was, really. He took a deep breath, grateful that his throat was already feeling better, though the tang of blood was still lingering.

 

“Can we talk about that tomorrow?”

 

Sherlock gave him a curious look, tilting his head to one side slightly, his eyes wide and calculating.

 

“Why?”

 

“I just need time to think. I want to sleep on it. Okay?” The statement was short, far too concise, telling of Mycroft’s unsettled mood. Sherlock took in Mycroft’s dull eyes, his hanging head, and the overall picture of complete and utter exhaustion that his posture presented. His brother looked like the tiredness had seeped into his very bones. Maybe he wasn’t as psychologically healthy as he had led Sherlock to believe. He nodded, slowly, watching as Mycroft rubbed at his pale skin with the curls of his fists, breathing deeply through his mouth. He had cleaned himself up, had a shower and washed away the blood and the mud, but he didn’t look a much better. He still looked haunted, when he thought that nobody was looking.

 

Sherlock was more worried than he liked to let on. Mycroft was supposed to be the strong one. Sure, he had nightmares, but they were nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. Tonight had been different though. Never had Mycroft cried out, though he often struggled and occasionally sweated. Even then, after a particularly bad night, he never looked at bad as this, even when Sherlock wasn’t looking. And he did make an effort to hide it from Sherlock; he just saw more than Mycroft gave him credit for. Now though... he looked defeated.

 

He had given Mycroft time to think now. When he spoke again, it was much slower, quieter, as if being forced to admit a secret.

 

“Sherlock, I don’t remember anything from before the curse. I mean, I have a vague idea of things that happened, but not memories as such. I know they happened, but it’s like knowing the same way as if someone had just told me. It’s as if I wasn’t there. It’s like... I know that the battle of Bosworth happened in 1066, right? And I know that mother held a huge party for father’s 40th birthday, too. But those two things are the same to me. I only know what I’ve been told, it’s not like I was really there, like I didn’t experience them.”

 

Sherlock stared at him, completely astounded. Mycroft sighed.

 

“Look, it’s not important. That’s not what I’m trying to say. What is important is that I don’t remember why any of it happened. All I remember is the curse. I know _that_ happened, it’s when my real memories start, but I don’t remember exactly what happened before, so I don’t...” He took a deep breath. “Do you know why it happened? Why we were cursed? Was it something to do with father?”

 

Sherlock nodded mutely.

 

“Could you... can you tell me?”

 

He shook his head. Mycroft wished they could talk properly, instead of whispering constantly.

“Please, Sherlock! I need to know! All this time, this has been going on, I don’t understand why! I don’t understand why this had to happen, I don’t understand what caused it, I don’t understand any of it! It’s like... my whole life, yes? We aren’t like normal people, Sherlock. I need to know why.”

 

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, I can’t... not yet.” Sherlock was quite obviously struggling with some inner kind of turmoil, and Mycroft sighed. There would be no persuading him, he knew. It wasn’t worth the fight, however desperately he wanted to know.

 

“Alright. Not yet. But you will tell me? At some point? Not now, but sometime?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Thank you.”

 

There was silence for a long moment before Sherlock spoke.

 

“Do you remember the curse then? Our curse; the one you recited when you were dreaming?” Mycroft shook his head slowly, deliberately avoiding his brother’s eyes, and looking out towards the window, trying to see through the tiny gap in the curtains to look out over the street outside that he hadn’t seen for too many years.

 

“Not as such.” He whispered.  “Not when I’m consciously trying to remember it, anyway. I must know it though, because it keeps coming back to me, just like all the other memories. However, never together. I never get the full picture, just parts of it.” Sherlock nodded.

 

“So if I told you it now, you would remember?” Mycroft stared at him.

 

“I thought you said you didn’t?”

 

“But you spoke it, didn’t you? I memorised it.” He shrugged, his manner ‘matter of fact’ about his revelation.

 

“Don’t say it out loud!” Mycroft cried and sat upright, startled. Sherlock sighed with the typical attitude that Mycroft realised he had actually missed. It wasn’t just being away from the war. It was, surprisingly, nice to be _home_ , having weird conversations in the middle of the night with his lunatic of a younger brother who was snarky and grumpy as ever.

 

“I wasn’t _going_ to. I’m not _stupid_.” Sherlock declared, in a loud whisper, and Mycroft had to try hard to suppress his grin, which was threatening to break.

 

“Sorry.” He took a breath, letting it shudder through him like a breath of life. The air in his bedroom was cool, welcome to his lungs, but made his skin prickle. He pulled the duvet up to cover his arms, and noticed Sherlock shivering. “Come here.” He said, lifting up the corner of the quilt nearest him as an invitation. Sherlock glared at him, as if to say ‘what, with you? I’d rather freeze to death’. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Get under the covers, or you’ll catch your death of cold.”

 

With a little huff of frustration, Sherlock declared: “That’s not technically possible.” But he pulled the end of the quilt over his legs anyway, stretching out under it until his toes touched his brother, who hissed at the contact.

“Your feet are freezing!”

Sherlock grinned, mischievously, and didn’t move them.

“I know,” he said.

Mycroft studied him, frowning, but then grinned and gave him a little poke with his toe, pushing him sideways slightly so that he could stretch his own legs out underneath the bedcovers. They sat like that for a while, stretched out side by side like sardines in a tin, until Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

 

“It’s cold,” he declared, the effect rather ruined by the fact he was still whispering, and Mycroft grinned.

 

“Yes?” Sherlock sighed.

 

“Look, you told me to be more subtle at dinner earlier, so I try and then you deliberately ignore me!” Mycroft laughed.

 

“Alright. You can sleep here tonight, as long as you don’t wriggle too much. Or snore. Or talk in your sleep.”  Sherlock gave him a playful poke in the hip with his own toe, reached across to grab Mycroft’s spare pillow, and then snuggled down under the duvet, so his feet were at Mycroft’s shoulder height.

 

“I’m not going to. You might, though,” he whispered, already facing the other way, black curls fanning out over the pillow behind him. Mycroft copied him, settling down and pulling the duvet up over his shoulder to shield him from the cool air. He reached out with one arm and turned the light off, content to sleep in the dark when he knew he had a companion. It made the night more bearable somehow. He wouldn’t have nightmares again tonight.

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

“’night, Mycroft.”

 

“Sleep well.”

 

“I won’t able to if you won’t shut up.”

 

Mycroft smiled into his quilt and closed his eyes.


End file.
